


Statistics and Quoting Scripture

by Sensue



Series: Suitcase of Memories [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brain Damage, Brotherhood AU, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Missing Persons, Origin Story, Police Procedural, Pre-Series, Psychic Abilities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 34,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28516038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sensue/pseuds/Sensue
Summary: Brotherhood AU Prequel. Dr. Mackland Ames had an ego that could fill a football field. They called him selfish and spoiled, the son of a rich man, all the money in the world, and the attitude to go with it. Now, they just call him a freak. Hurt/Comfort
Relationships: Dr. Mackland Ames/Original Female Character
Series: Suitcase of Memories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1887088
Comments: 10
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Quote: ‘Satan delights equally in statistics and in quoting scripture...’ H.G. Wells, The Undying Fire.  
> Note: I started this story in 2006 and I just had to finish it. I dug it out of my WIP folder.  
> Rating: PG16, to be safe. (Added a little bit of racy imagery in the first chapter… I might be harboring a secret desire to write a romance novel.)   
> Author’s Note: Mackland Ames is ‘played by’ a young clean-shaven (no mustache- at least at first) Tom Selleck. I’ve also been told that I’ve overloaded angst in this story; I disagree, you can NEVER have too much angst. LOL  
> Timeline: Pre-Supernatural and Pre-Brotherhood AU. Timeline early - 1970s.  
> Beta: Thanks to PADavis

Dr. Mackland Ames sprawled on the bed– arms and legs flopping around like jellyfish as he gasped for breath. He licked his lips, thirsty and wanting nothing more than to remove the weight pressing him down to get some water. “Of course, that would be in bad taste,” he thought. Especially considering the giggling woman licking her way down his chest obviously wasn’t done with him. The doctor gripped her long brown wavy hair between his fingers, as her downward travel hit home. 

Once she had him under her control, she paused and looked up at him, playfully. “Oh, Mackland,” She moaned, “Did I thank you for the lovely necklace you gave me? I might’ve forgotten.”

He smiled back at her, tucking his muscular arms under his head enjoying the feeling of her fingers dancing along his hip as she rested her head against his thigh. “You might’ve said something along those lines, Rebecca,” he gasped, his ability to speak somewhat dampened in the current situation. He could still hear the pounding music and noise from downstairs, the party he’d thrown was unaffected by the lack of a host and the late hour. 

Rebecca St. Laurent was the daughter of the Chief Financial Officer of City-Savings Bank. She had the education of royalty: private tutors, a French finishing school, piano, and ballet lessons. The ballet training was Mackland’s personal favorite; for the woman could bend in places the physician in him found nearly anatomically impossible. Physically, she was a goddess, with long shapely legs and curves in all the right places. With all her beauty, education, family money, and other talents, Dr. Mackland Ames was drawn to her like a moth to the flames—much to the horror of his demanding father. His father, Cullen Ames, had been hovering around more than usual, making comments that his girlfriend was a gold-digger.

As far as Mac was concerned, he loved her and would do anything to make her happy…buy whatever she wanted with no hesitation—his father’s expectations be damned. When he turned twenty-one, his family trust fund moved out of his father’s control and into his. That combined with his generous salary as a well-respected neurosurgeon in a prestigious New York City hospital, well, a thirty-thousand-dollar diamond necklace was worth every penny when Rebecca thanked him.

The party tonight was one of her ways of thanking him, or so she said. She’d called up their friends, some of them flying in from Hollywood, inviting them to an exclusive party at Mackland’s new three-story penthouse apartment, and of course, to see her new jewelry. She’d even pestered him into a pricey new tuxedo designed by an obscure Italian fashion designer named Armani. With a fresh haircut, aftershave, new shoes, and diamond cufflinks completing his look, he wondered if he was another of the gifts being presented that night. Rebecca was dressed in a little black dress that left nothing to his imagination. Mackland did not see anyone else in the suite, his heated gaze following her through the room; all he could think about was getting her alone. He’d watched as she flirted, her eyes immediately meeting his, as if she knew exactly how jealous he was becoming. 

Once she was within his grasp, he pulled her up the stairs and into his bedroom – uncaring of his guests or the party. He wanted her. Rebecca refused to remove her necklace, resting her hand on his when he moved to unlatch it; the candle lights in the room just enough brightness to make the diamonds shimmer as she moved. She gave him a look of pure arousal, enticing him; the dress was practically ripped off as he could barely restrain himself. He forced himself to pause or they would have to end the night sooner than he’d planned. She noticed his hesitation and quickly took control; it was a game that they played. She did things to him that he’d never experienced before that night. Things that left him completely, yet pleasurably exhausted.

“Ha-ha ha-ha,” she laughed, as she slowly made her way back to his side, trailing her fingers along his chest until they reached his now swollen lips. He was glad that he decided to shave before the party, for it enhanced his sense of touch. Rebecca trailed her finger around his lips; her light touch was making his entire body tingle. “Did you enjoy yourself?” 

He caught the tip of her finger in between his lips and nipped at it playfully. “I did… I would’ve enjoyed it more if there weren’t people downstairs – probably listening to us.” 

Rebecca pulled her finger away, leaning over to kiss him. “Really?” She whispered as they separated for air, “That was my favorite part…”

Mackland half-heartedly agreed with her only to maintain his post-coital glow. It was an embarrassment to him to have their friends and strangers alike hearing them making love. However, there was just something about her that made him lose his usual objectivity and composure. He liked to think that she brought passion and spontaneity into his structured life. His friends put it a different way, laughingly calling him a ‘horny teenager’ around her. 

He leaned over for another breathtaking kiss when she pulled away from him, sliding her sweat glistened body off the satin sheets. She bent over, giving him a nice view to pick up her dress and slip it back on. Ames sat up in confusion, “where are you going?”

Rebecca managed to sound perfectly innocent as she zipped up her dress and found her heels under the bed. “What do you mean, Mackland? We’ve discussed this…” 

It did not take but a second for the blood to rush from his loins to his brain. Mackland slammed his hand down on the nightstand beside him as he got out of bed to confront her. “You know, Rebecca, I really don’t like this game you’re playing. You’ll sleep with me, but you won’t spend the night. I honestly don’t see the point. It’s practically morning! What will it matter if you wake up with me in a couple of hours?”

He watched her as she slipped on her heels and started to fix her hair in the mirror. She looked at him through the reflection, “Mackland, darling. I’ve already explained… my family is old-fashioned.”

Frustration was eating at the doctor. This was an on-going argument. He honestly couldn’t see the logic in her statements. She wouldn’t stay the night because ‘it would be like moving in with him’. And she couldn’t move in with him because her parents were traditional and old-fashioned, as she put it. She seduced and bedded him but played hard-to-get afterward. The woman was a walking contradiction. He couldn’t figure out what she wanted. All he knew was that he wanted her like no other.

His thoughts abruptly flew back down south as she walked over and kissed him again. Her tongue licked his palate – tormenting him. “Goodnight, Mackland. I love you.” With that, she walked out of the room, her heels click-clacking on the hardwood, before gently closing the door behind her.

Ames wanted nothing more than to follow her, but in his current state, he wouldn’t risk further embarrassment by running after her through a busy foyer wearing nothing but a smile. Clutching one of the pillows, he buried his face in the cushion and groaned. Once his emotions calmed, he picked up the phone and dialed his butler. 

“Edward, the party is over. Please make sure everyone gets home safely.” The doctor then ordered the maid service and executive chefs to clean up the mess the partygoers had made. Everything would be back to normal by the time he woke the next morning. His staff would make sure of it.


	2. Chapter 2

Dr. Ames walked into the hospital the next morning with a yawn, heading immediately towards the physician’s break room for a cup of coffee. He grabbed a mug from the drying rack and poured the coffee from the percolator that had kept it warm. The first sip was savored as it warmed his throat and jolted his system to awaken.

A voice from behind him forced his attention away from his morning coffee routine. “Heard you had an exciting night, Mackland… and you did not even invite me.” 

The doctor smirked at his friend, “Peter, if it helps you to know this, I’ll tell you that I did not have a say in the guest list. Rebecca organized it.”

Dr. Peter Prentiss just rolled his eyes at his colleague, “That woman has you whipped, my friend. She says ‘jump’ and you ask, ‘how high?’”

Mackland laughed, “And you’re jealous!”

“Damn straight I’m jealous. Have you seen that woman’s legs? What I wouldn’t give to have them wrapped around my body! Lucky bastard.” Peter groused. 

After Mackland had finished his cup of coffee, he went over to his locker and pulled out his pristine white lab-coat, slipping it over his tailored shirt. Once the lab-coat was on, he became Dr. Ames, Neurosurgeon. “So, what do we have today? Any interesting cases come in last night?” 

Dr. Prentiss looked at him wearily, “We had a MVA accident at 2 am. Two cars in a head-on collision; the first casualty that came in was relatively minor: a 28-year-old male with broken collar bone and facial cuts from the windshield. The second car – not so lucky. A family of four. The father was dead on the scene, witnesses say he caused the accident – he was distracted. He was crushed in the wreckage, bled out quickly. The kids—a 12-year-old boy and a 9-year-old girl—were brought in with minor injuries. They’re up in pediatrics. Dr. Marshall is treating them.”

“And the wife?” Mackland spotted the omission right away. “What’s her condition?”

“Serious. X-rays showed a rupture in the ACA vasculature in the Circle of Willis. She’s showing signs of left-sided weakness. We did a spinal, showed blood in the CSF.” The emergency room attending physician handed the neurosurgeon his patient’s chart. 

Dr. Ames looked through the results, flipping through the pages. “Brain aneurysm. No wonder the driver was distracted…his wife’s brain was exploding.” He mumbled under his breath. “Why wasn’t I called in?”

“Well, it took the rescue crews five hours to cut them out of the wreckage. The woman was trapped in the passenger side. They had to use the Jaws of Life and by the time she got here, and we diagnosed her with an aneurysm, it was your time to come in. If we could get one of those new EMI-scanners that they’ve got in Wimbleton it would’ve been faster to diagnose...” Dr. Prentiss had seen more than one aneurysm in his time in the E.R. and knew the post-trauma procedure well. “We have her prepped in the OR for you. She’s a prime candidate for surgical clipping.” 

Dr. Ames took in a deep breath, looking at the x-rays, trying to gauge the success rates in his mind. He shot his co-worker a scathing look, “I am fully capable of coming up with my own treatment plan. I don’t need you doing it for me!”

Prentiss blinked rapidly, “I’m sorry, what?”

“You don’t schedule me for surgery without my knowledge!” Dr. Ames was angry. The dumb jack-of-all-trades doctor was intruding on his specialty.

Prentiss swallowed hard, pushing his hands in his pockets before the egotistic bastard could see him clenching his fists. “Asshole…” he thought. Out loud, he spoke calmly, “Of course. I’m sorry for interfering with your patient, Dr. Ames. The next-of-kin is in the waiting room.” With that said, he walked away, leaving the smug neurosurgeon to make his own ‘treatment plan’.

Once the door closed, Dr. Ames ran his hands through his hair in frustration. He hated these types of cases; brain aneurysms that were caught late had a minimal chance of success. If the woman had left-sided weakness, with signs of abnormal posturing, the damage was already done. The only thing surgery nearly seven hours after the incident would accomplish was to keep her body alive in a vegetative state; although it was highly unlikely that she’d survive a craniotomy. He looked at the x-ray in his hands, canceling the surgery in his mind. He just needed to convince the family that it would best to let nature take its course.

He closed the chart, grabbed his stethoscope, and walked toward the waiting room. As he approached the labeled area, he noticed a middle-aged man pacing anxiously, while a younger woman wept in her seat. He was spotted only a second later and the man quickly nudged the woman, pointing toward him.   
“My name is Dr. Mackland Ames. I’m a neurosurgeon at this hospital.” Dr. Ames introduced himself, shaking the man’s hand and giving the woman clutching several tissues a gentle smile. The man told him his name was Michael Morse and the crying woman was his wife, Angela. He motioned them to follow him into his private office.

“Please, have a seat.” He pointed out the chairs in front of his desk and handed the still crying woman a box of tissues. 

“So, you’re a neurosurgeon… that’s a brain doctor, right? You’re the one who’s going to operate on my little sister?” The man was still standing, so Ames motioned for him to sit once again. “Dr. Prentiss said you were the best.”

“That was kind of Dr. Prentiss to say…” Ames started once Michael was sitting in the seat next to his wife. “Did he explain your sister’s condition to you? The condition she was in when she was brought into the E.R.?”

The young woman continued to weep. She wasn’t taking in anything the doctor was saying and her husband was completely agitated. “He told us that my sister had a brain aneurysm and my brother-in-law had a car accident. James’s –dead. The kids, James, Jr., and Gemma, they’re fine. We went up and saw them right away. Just got cuts and bruises. Thank God. My sister – did she?” He threw his hands on his mouth, “Oh, God. They said they were taking her to the operating room. Did something happen?”

“Her condition is incredibly serious. You need to understand that this type of injury needs to be treated immediately. After four hours, the likelihood that she’ll be permanently brain-damaged increases significantly. It’s been over seven hours since the accident.” The doctor spoke almost mechanically as if he were reading a script. 

“But, they said, that with surgery…”

“Right now, there is an active hemorrhage in your sister’s brain. Surgery at this point is unnecessary. She has left-sided weakness: essentially like a stroke. When the brain doesn’t get enough oxygen to certain areas, the area dies. There are also signs, based on her posture, that there’s a severe brain injury. There’s less than a ten percent survival rate with this type of injury. I’m sorry.”

“Ten percent? But, she’s still alive… like you said, it’s been seven hours. Isn’t that a good sign?” Michael shook his head in confusion, trying to wrap his head around the clinical terminology and cold medical descriptions of his sister’s injuries. 

“What it means is that her heart is still beating because that area of her brain that controls autonomic functions hasn’t been damaged yet.” The doctor continued to explain.

“You could still do the surgery. I mean, yeah, ten percent is low, but Doctor, you don’t know my sister. She’s a fighter.” Michael stood back up, trying to convince him to do the surgery.

“I think you both need to think about this. If she survives, she most likely will have permanent left-sided paralysis and will be in a vegetative state.”

Michael Morse practically put his fist in his mouth. “So, you’re saying—you don’t even want to try and save her? She’s just a statistic to you.”

Dr. Ames sat up straight in his chair, his face becoming an unreadable mask. “I’m just asking you to think about her quality of life.” 

“Fuck you!” The man stood up angrily, shaking his fists in the neurosurgeon’s face. The woman finally seemed to snap out of her shock and gripped her husband around the waist to pull him out of the room.

Mrs. Morse led her husband toward the door but before they left, the woman looked at the doctor with tear-stained eyes. “Dr. Ames. I have a question.” 

Mackland stood up and joined her at the door. “Of course.”

“Do you even know her name?” She did not even wait for him to answer, before walking out to console her husband and to arrange for the children to be transferred into their care.

The doctor went back to his desk and stared at his hands. There was a knock on the door a few minutes later and Dr. Prentiss walked in. “I just thought you should know that your patient died on the O.R. table about five minutes ago. EEG showed no electrical activity. Code team just called T.O.D.” His friend sat down on the seat across from him and just looked at him. “You were right; she wasn’t going to make it through the surgery.” Peter swallowed hard, “I’m sorry that I put you in that position with the family.” 

For a while, neither of them said anything. Mackland looked at his friend, and sighed, “It’s alright.” He turned in his chair, looking at his degrees lining the wall, memories entering his mind without his permission.

“Are you alright? I know that Morse was angry. The nurses heard him yelling…”

“I’m fine.” Mackland reiterated. “Just thinking.” Peter was silent, waiting for him to continue. “I’m thinking about the reason I got into this field.” He sniffed a little, wiping at his face wearily, “Did I ever tell you that my mother died of a brain aneurysm? She was pregnant with me, and from what my father said, suffered from prenatal hypertension. She must have been born with a congenital defect that hypertension exacerbated. Anyway, my mother lived just long enough to give birth to me… I got into this field to try and prevent children from having to live their lives without a mother.” 

Dr. Ames stared into his friend’s eyes, continuing, “She was right, you know?” 

Peter’s eyebrows arched, “Who was right?”

“Mrs. Morse. I did not even know her sister-in-law’s name. I just orphaned her two children, and I don’t even know her name.” 

“Mackland, you can’t let this get to you. We have other patients. Ones we can save.” Dr. Peter Prentiss stood up, holding out his hand to his friend to pull him out of his chair. “I got another case for you, Dr. Ames…”

Ames let his colleague’s words penetrate. The man was right, this was their life. There would always be those who died and those who lived. There would be no way that he could save everyone. Best to just let it go and move on to someone he could save.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been a very long week, Mackland thought as he walked towards his front door. All he wanted to do was to get some sleep and spend some time with Rebecca. He was surprised to see his butler waiting for him as soon as he walked in. Edward usually left early on Fridays to spend time with his children; the fact that he was waiting for him worried the doctor. “Edward, is there something wrong?” 

“You have a visitor, sir. Your father is in the study. I had told him that you weren’t home, but he insisted on waiting for you to arrive.” Edward looked uncomfortable, and Ames guessed his father’s insistence was more of a demand. 

“Thank you for staying and keeping him company, Edward. You can go home now. I know your children will probably be wondering why you’re late for game night.” Mackland smiled at the young father, handing him a generous tip as he shook his hand. 

Edward smiled back, “Thank you, Dr. Ames. Have a wonderful night.”

“You, too.” The doctor watched as his butler left, locking the door behind him. He envied the man; when Edward got home, his family would be happy to see him. Mackland had no doubt in his mind that his father wasn’t visiting because he missed his only son. No, the minute he walked into the study, he would be reprimanded for something. Nothing he ever did made his father happy, and at his age, he was tired of trying.

He toed off his shoes and loosened his tie all the while gathering his wits about him. He would need every ounce of patience, calm, and composure when dealing with his father. He walked over to his office and, unsurprisingly, found his father sitting at his desk, leaving him the option of either sitting on the couch or standing like a child in front of a school principal.

“Dad, what a surprise. What can I do for you?” He decided to sit. After all, it was his home.

Cullen Ames was a ruthless businessman who put his business first and his family last. His father was always confident and full of passion. His employees loved him because he always treated them with kindness and respect. It earned him an undying loyalty and an unparalleled company. While other companies were sinking in the current recession, his father’s company was solid and refused to flounder. Mackland personally thought it was because Cullen Ames was a charismatic and emotionally compelling man. There was just something about him that made most people work hard to make him proud. The fact that other people could make his father proud and he could not was a very hard thing for the doctor to swallow. 

“Mackland,” The older man started with a sigh, “People have been telling me things.”

“Really? That’s amazing. What have they been telling you?” Although he’d been trying to keep himself from reacting to his father, there was no way he could keep the sarcasm from escaping his lips. 

His father leaned back in the chair, gazing at his son with disappointment and hurt in his eyes. “I don’t deserve to be spoken to that way, son. I’m concerned.”

Mackland licked his lips, composing his thoughts before speaking. “Concerned? About what?”

Cullen stood and started pacing the room; Mackland internally rolled his eyes. The pacing was his father’s way of ‘winding up’ for a lecture. He knew this well and tried to anticipate what his father would say, but for the life of him, Mackland couldn’t think of a single reason why his father was here.

“I’m concerned about you and the way you’ve changed over these past few months.”

Mackland huffed, “I haven’t seen you in months, Dad. How would you know that I’ve changed?” He sat up straight in his seat, tension tightening his muscles. “Why don’t we just get this over with? Stop the runaround and just tell me what I’ve done wrong now…” 

“Do you have any idea how much money you’ve spent over the past three months?” It was spoken softly, but with a menace behind it.

That made him arch his eyebrow, “Yes. I do. And I don’t see how any of that is your business.” He said it matter-of-factly, not planning on explaining himself. 

Cullen’s face darkened, anger flooding his cheeks. “It is my business when the bank manager calls me and asks me if you’ve gotten into any trouble! Charles Kinderman has been my friend for years and he was worried that you were being blackmailed! He even alluded to the idea that you might’ve started gambling! I told him that I would investigate it if he would kindly send me the current statements. Now, I have never seen you so frivolous in financial matters before, so I was worried that Charles might be right. Imagine my surprise, Mackland when I find out that you’ve spent nearly half a million dollars on parties, wine, and jewelry in the past three months.”

“I’ll sue Kinderman for an invasion of privacy! You have no right to my bank accounts!” Launching himself up, he continued to yell. “Why are you here? What do you care if I spend a thousand or a million!? It doesn’t put a dent in the family fortune!”

“Continue this, Mackland, and our fortune won’t last but a few years in your hands,” Cullen’s voice was thick, eyes sparkling with tears. “This isn’t you, son! I know about her, Rebecca St. Laurent. I had her and her family investigated.”

Rage, red hot rage, flashed through the younger man’s body. The result of that rage was a cleared desk and shattered glass sprayed across the now paper-flooded floor. Small drips of blood speckled the paper and carpet from the cuts on his hands. He wasn’t even aware of the fact that he wasn’t sitting down any longer in his frenzy.

He turned towards his father, wiping his mouth with his trembling hand. “I don’t care! I’m going to marry her. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make her happy.”

Cullen gasped, “What the hell has gotten into you? That woman is nothing but a high-class prostitute hiding behind her family’s ill-gotten fortune!”

Without a single rational thought, he reacted violently; grabbing his father by the lapels of his suit and pushing him into a glass-fronted curio cabinet. He did not hear the glass crack, nor his father’s shocked cry until hours afterward, in his dreams. “Shut up!” He swore, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth and landing on his father’s pale face. “You’ve finally crossed the line, Dad. I want you to leave.”

For a moment, the only thing either of them could do was breathe. The enormity of what he’d just done was mirrored in his father’s fear-filled eyes. Mackland abruptly let him go; his father dropped an inch until his shaky feet touched the floor. 

Cullen whispered, “I think that would be best.” He pulled his shirt down firmly; small shards of glass falling from where he’d collided with the cabinet and picked up his trench coat from the toppled coat rack. The look on Cullen’s face was blank, unreadable, something Mac did not remember seeing before. When Cullen finally spoke, it was cold. “You’re not my son anymore.”

Turning away, Mackland went to the bar and poured himself a brandy. He gulped the drink and hissed at the burn. “Funny, because you were never my father. Now, get out!” He pointed at the door.

The doctor could see the older man dry-swallowing, his eyes blinking rapidly—as if Cullen could say some magic words to turn it all around in his favor and his son would toe the line. Mackland was in no mood to hear empty apologies. “I said, ‘Get out!’ I don’t want to hear another word out of your mouth. It’s over, Cullen. I don’t need you anymore.”

With that Cullen Ames walked out. Mac took the brandy bottle with him to his living room and settled in for a long night. 

The next morning, once Mackland sobered, he promised himself that if he was blessed with a son, he would always be there for him – he would not become his father. He would never hire a set of nannies to raise his baby. He wouldn’t come home after a long day at work and push his son out of the way to make phone calls; he’d listen to the boy excitedly tell him about his first day of school. They’d share memories of real adventures, family vacations, and quality time spent together. When he read to his son, it wouldn’t be to just make him fall asleep, it would be to hear him laugh. 

Mackland wanted to move on with his life and forget his father—but the memory of that day just kept repeating over and over in his mind; with each repetition, he’s said or done things differently. There was a part of him that wanted to pick up the phone to apologize to his father. To lie and say that he did not mean the things that he’d said. Or say that he was drunk or had gone mad… but he did not, not the next day, nor the next month, nor the ones that followed.

One of the hardest things he had to do was to tell Rebecca about the entire ordeal. As he imagined, she was heartbroken, telling him that she felt responsible. She even kindly offered to call his father for him and try to reconcile their relationship, worried that she might’ve torn the Ames family apart. Throughout it all, she was supportive, always reminding him that he had the power to start a new family. It was endearing and made Mackland picture them as husband and wife.

He had already purchased the engagement ring; an Asscher cut three-carat diamond but the fight he’d had with his father ruined his mood. It wasn’t beneath him to admit that Cullen touched upon his fears when it came to marriage. It was something that he’d always been warned about since he was a child, not just by his father, but by all the men who surrounded the family: the ‘gold-digging woman’. It was like an urban legend—a story to be told and exaggerated as time passed and gruesome details were added.

For his sanity, he decided to ignore the stories and put away his childish fears – especially since Rebecca told him that she had a trust fund. She wouldn’t marry him for his money when she had her own. He trusted her and that was that.

After the decision was made to ask her, the pre-proposal jitters ate away at him for a few days as he tried to come up with the ‘perfect’ proposal plan. He’d asked several of his friends for ideas, and they happily shared some of the more eccentric ones with him. Honestly, he would never eat a hot dog, nevertheless put an engagement ring worth about thirty-thousand-dollars on it! Finally, he just decided to have a traditional proposal. Mackland invited Rebecca to dine with him at a restaurant, asked the violinist to play a melody for them, kneeled, and asked for her hand in marriage. She cried tears of joy and nodded yes to accepting his ring, before kissing him passionately. They did not finish their meal, hurriedly making their way to his apartment – dropping clothes along the way to his bedroom. For the first time, she stayed through the night and woke him up in the morning with a kiss that took his breath away.

Mackland was floating on a cloud, he was so happy. Rebecca never looked so radiant… She was constantly flittering around making wedding plans. He’d met her parents; lovely people who seemed very down-to-earth. Her mother kept beaming at him as if he’d made her dreams come true, while her father kept shaking his hand. Mackland enjoyed watching Rebecca as she invited their friends over, telling all of them how he proposed, all the while holding up her hand so they wouldn’t miss the large diamond on her dainty finger.

Rebecca had planned an engagement party so large that they needed to rent out two halls at the Plaza. She’d already purchased her wedding gown and was planning, in her own words, the ‘Wedding of the Century’. He’d already told her that she could make the decisions; laughingly saying that he’d just show up in a tuxedo waiting for her to walk down the aisle and say ‘I do’. The only thing that annoyed him about the ‘wedding process’ was that she was rarely around anymore as if the appointments for caterers, planners, and bridesmaids were apparently more important than spending time with him. His friends all advised him that it was ‘normal’ and that she’d settle down again after the wedding.

Mackland found his fiancé to be incredibly persuasive—she’d managed to talk him into sending an engagement notice to the New York Times. Much to his surprise, his co-workers came up the next day and showed him that the announcement somehow managed to get on the front page of the society section. His friends all whistled and cheered, posting copies of the newspaper on practically every pinboard in the hospital. It took him an hour and a half to tear them all down after work, blushing the entire time as one person after another came up to congratulate him on his engagement. 

He’d ended up with a box full of clippings on the front seat of his car. He thought of throwing the box out but figured that it would be something funny that he could share with his fiancé. Perhaps he could litter their bed with them—as it was her fault they ended up in the Times, instead of a local paper that no one read. “Work is over, thank God,” he mumbled to himself, “I don’t know I could’ve stood another minute.” He looked up, surprised, as the sky darkened above him. It looked like the weatherman was right for once. As he turned the engine, the sky lit up and thunder crashed a few seconds later.

The doctor sighed as he started his drive, “Better get home before the storm hits.” He drove slowly and cautiously, trying not to swerve as several drivers cut him off and passed by him in their hurry to get home. He stopped at every stop sign and every red light. One light was especially long, and his mind wandered. Mackland glanced at the box beside him; a stray thought hit him and left him feeling cold. He wondered if his father had seen the announcement and started to think about what he’d do if his father called him. The thunder cracked again, jarring him and bringing him back to the present. The cars behind him started honking their horns; apparently, the light had turned green and he hadn’t noticed. With a wave to the car behind him, he took his foot off the brake and moved it to the accelerator. 

Another flash of lightning nearly blinded him, and he was waiting to hear the thunder follow. It wasn’t until he heard the crash not of thunder, but of glass, metal, and his screams that he realized that it hadn’t been lightning but a car coming straight at him. The next sensation he felt was pain—there wasn’t a pain scale high enough to measure it. He did not feel anything after that.


	4. Chapter 4

Someone was rubbing his arms and legs with lavender-scented lotion. He thought it was his father. “This is strange,” Mackland thought, “like a dream, but feels so real.” And if it were a dream, why would he choose to dream about his father of all people. Why not of Rebecca? If anyone was tending to him, it would be Rebecca… and she wouldn’t be focusing on his hands, but other parts of his anatomy. His senses were strong, the only thing missing from the dream was his sight. He only felt, heard, and smelled his surroundings; it was completely disjointed, like a roller coaster.

The thing about it was, it wasn’t just one dream. It was a series of them. Some of them were mixed in with long-forgotten memories… Innocent memories of a father who was loving and kind, instead of distant and neglecting. The memory brought to the forefront was of bedtimes and being cuddled as stories were read out loud to him. His father’s voice was warm and comforting, picking out his favorite book to read: “The Three Musketeers” by Alexandre Dumas. He remembered his father telling him that it was also his favorite book. ‘Mackland, my boy,’ he’d always say, ‘this book isn't about a boy seeking to protect a king; it's about a boy finding a home among men who teach him honor and duty. The one thing all boys strive for in life.’ That memory, above them all, shook him to the core. It made him consider how the passage of time and his biased interpretation managed to taint something that had been a wonderful memory.

The rest of the dreams, he liked to call fantasies because he had no frame of reference for them. No one in his life had ever kissed his forehead or cupped his face before. There were bright lights and loud beeping, familiar scents of antiseptics as if he was working. It became confusing, as his father was there. As far as he knew, his father never once stepped foot at the hospital to visit him at work, so why would he dream of it?

He hovered in between dreams and waking for a while. He was tired, wanting to wake, but not ready to. He was comfortable; he felt safe and warm, therefore couldn’t think of a single reason why he shouldn’t sleep in. After a while, the doctor felt someone prodding him; insisting that he wake up. He wanted to roll over and pull the covers up over his head like a child. Moving his hand, Mackland tried to grip the sheet but found that he was having trouble. His father’s voice—he recognized it—pleaded with him to try again. His hand was encompassed in between two stronger ones, and he felt warm breath on his cheek as his father begged him to squeeze his hand.

It was hard to respond at first; squeezing seemed to be too large a task for him—something that he needed to gather his strength to accomplish. It took a little longer than he anticipated, but he was able to move a couple of his fingers around weakly. He was rewarded by an unexpected sob and a rain of tears on his hand. A few moments later, there was a press of lips above his right eye and a warm hand on his cheek.

It did not take him long to finally wake up from the dream. After all, all he needed to do was open his eyes. It was then that he realized that none of it had truly been a dream at all—it had all been a nightmare. And now that he was awake, he was in a hell that he was unable to escape. He was trapped –stuck inside his mind, unable to speak or move his body. No matter how much he cried and screamed and begged, no one could hear him. It was all out of his control; and worst of all, his father was right beside him, watching him.

He could only imagine how disappointed the old man would be of him now. His only son was a vegetable. A jolt of fear made his entire body tremble. “Please,” he thought, “Please, God. Don’t leave me here like this. Please, just let me die.” He heard the alarms of the monitors go off and felt the medical staff touching him; there was a quick stick of a needle and he gratefully went back to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

The next time that Mackland opened his eyes, he found himself face to face with his father. Cullen was sitting on the side of the bed and rested his right hand against his son’s chest, rubbing it slightly. “Mackland, son. Listen to me. You’re alright. Everything is going to be just fine now. You’re in the hospital. If you can understand me, son, blink twice.”

Confusion clouded the doctor’s mind, but he was able to blink. He watched the older man smile, before talking to someone that was out of his eyesight. “That’s good, Mackland. Do you know who I am?” Two subsequent blinks answered the question. “Thank God…” It was said in a whisper, but Mackland heard him clearly. A movement caught the corner of his eye and he was able to slightly turn his head to see that there was a small group of people in the room. One of them, a doctor, he assumed by the white coat, leaned over him and smiled.

“Dr. Ames, my name is Dr. Marcus Cooper. You’re in a hospital because you were in a serious car accident. You suffered a traumatic brain injury as a result.” As the white-haired physician spoke, the monitors steadily increased their beeping. “I know this is very frightening for you, but I need to you try and relax. It might help you to know that no one else was injured.” Ames ignored him and tried to move his hands; his attempts completely uncoordinated. He could only moan a distressing sound that brought tears to his father’s eyes. Dr. Cooper gently held one of his flailing hands before sitting along the edge of the bed mirroring his father. Cooper stared into the younger doctor’s eyes and when he spoke, it was with firm kindness, “You need to calm down. You’ve been asleep for a long time, young man, and I don’t want to sedate you again. So, I need to you listen to me and just breathe.”

It was easier said than done, for his thoughts drove him into panic several times. All he wanted to do was to get up out of bed and escape. His body trembled uncontrollably, and he couldn’t stop the tears that were streaming down his face. For the first time since childhood, Mackland Ames sobbed. Cullen cried with him, leaning over the bed to hold him in his arms. Warm kisses were pressed against his temple and fingers stroked his hand. What seemed like hours later, his breathing finally leveled out and he blearily stared at the physician.

The doctor looked at him with kindness and understanding. “I know that it’s difficult right now, but it will be alright. You are not alone.” Cooper motioned for the people in the room to come into his view. “Do you see these people? They are your team. We’ve been here for you since you’ve arrived, and we will continue to support you until you are ready to leave.”

Each person walked up to his bed and came into his sightline; they all gave him a happy smile. A couple of the women had tears in their eyes, and they held each other tightly, beaming at him as if he was the second coming. One by one, they introduced themselves: never as just nurses or therapists, but Naomi, Jane, Alvin, Bob, Frank, Matthew, and Gideon. Soon, all but Naomi left the room.

Dr. Cooper never took his eyes off his patient as he explained Dr. Ames’ current condition. This time, Mackland forced himself to listen and keep that panicky feeling at bay until he had gotten the full picture of his condition. Muscle atrophy, aphasia, possible memory loss, months of physical and occupational therapy to re-learn how to walk, talk, and function on a day-to-day basis. The most shocking piece of information, however, was the fact that he’d been in a coma for three months.

“It’s ironic,” the neurosurgeon thought, “that this could happen to me and that I would survive.” Somehow, he remembered that the probability that he would wake from a three-month coma was less than twenty-five percent and if it had continued but another month, less than fifteen. Tears sprung from his eyes, this time from sheer shame. If Ames had been treating himself as a patient, he knew that he would’ve written himself off months ago. The anguish quickly turned to rage and all Mackland wanted to do was throw something against the wall! He wanted to scream out loud every swear word he’d ever learned. He heard the noise of glass breaking, the monitors went off with a blaring stereo-like quality, and Dr. Cooper calling for a sedative before everything went dark again.


	6. Chapter 6

The next few weeks flew by. His frustration, fear, and anger only increased as time passed. Test after test was run on him, his father consenting on his behalf, since Mackland could not verbally give it. He still couldn’t speak, and his hands had yet to be able to pick up a softball, let alone achieve enough fine motor skill to write. His hands had once been able to repair the human brain, and now, they couldn’t even scratch an itch. 

His ‘team’ visited him every day, each of them performing therapy of some kind. He had a speech therapist, an occupational therapist, a physical therapist, three nurses, and much to his utter horror, a psychiatrist to quote: “Help him adjust”.

The speech therapist, Frank, was working with him now, trying to get him to say his name. The man was funny, always trying to get him to smile or laugh. It worked some of the time—but today was not one of those days. The man was coaxing him like a two-year-old, “Come on, Mackland.” Frank sighed deeply, his hand rubbing at his mouth, deep in thought. Suddenly, his eyes lit up, “You know, maybe we’re trying too hard… why don’t you try to say ‘Mac’? I mean, who needs a stuffy name like Mackland anyway?” The man winked at him, in jest. Frank refused to back down, like a child in a temper-tantrum, never stopping until they got what they wanted.

Anger at the insistent speech therapist fueled his attempts at trying to talk if only to shut the man up. Sounds escaped his lips, the ‘m’ and ‘k’ sounds clearly heard. Frank encouraged him to try and piece them together. It took several more attempts, and almost half an hour later, but at the end of the session, he spoke his first word “Mac”. 

Afterward, Frank squeezed his shoulder tightly, smiling as if he were a proud father listening to his baby’s first word. The entire staff stopped by that day to hear him say his name, all smiling happily and congratulating him on a job well done. Hell, by the end of the day, even he felt like he accomplished something important.

His father stopped by a few hours later, and he showed off his new skill by saying his name. Cullen laughed and hugged him, all the while telling him that he was incredibly proud of him. He listened to his father tell him about his day, unable to comment or question him outside of humming.

The door to his private room opened and Naomi walked in carrying a bouquet in a glass vase to ‘brighten the room up’. The young nurse smiled at him, putting the wildflowers on the nightstand next to his bed. The scent of the flowers started to permeate the room and subconsciously relaxed him. Naomi smiled at his father and Cullen quickly invited her to sit down for a minute to chat. 

She smiled and took a short break, much to his amazement; she turned towards him and started to chat with him as she always did. “I heard through the grapevine that we’re calling you Mac from now on!” 

He smiled back at her, before letting her hear his name “Mac.” 

“Mac it is!” The young girl seemed to be thinking, looking up at him before deciding to speak. “You know, I just graduated nursing school in May. This is my first job out of college and I just… People always say how rewarding being a nurse is and I guess, I never felt that way until now while we were helping you get better. So, I guess, what I’m trying to say is thank you for helping me realize that.” Naomi stood up and patted his hand before getting up to go about her rounds.

Cullen smiled, “Naomi’s a great girl, Mackland. She’s been taking care of you. I consider her a good friend now. She always stops by and chats with me every day.”

As his father spoke about Naomi being like a friend, Mackland’s eyes flashed with a sudden realization that Rebecca hadn’t come to see him since he’d woken up and as far as he could remember, his father hadn’t uttered a single word about her. Worry flooded his entire being and for a moment, he couldn’t remember if she’d been in the car with him or not.

His anxiety became evident to his father, who quickly left to get a doctor. Only moments later, Dr. Marcus Cooper and his father arrived with Dr. Gideon Reese, the psychiatrist who visited him daily, in tow. Dr. Cooper started taking his vital signs, trying to be calm and reassuring. “Are you in pain?”

By this time, he was able to shake his head and move his arms around somewhat, so he was able to express that he wasn’t in pain to them. Gideon, as he was asked to call him, questioned his father about what they’d been talking about and what happened before Mac became agitated. His father told the psychiatrist about Naomi bringing flowers and the kindness she’d shown them. 

Gideon stared at the flowers and Mac, trying to get into his head. Mac fought to get out the words. Frank had practiced the ‘b’ sound with him, and he was confident that he could at least try and say a shortened version of his fiancé’s name. “Be --- Be ---B,” It was the only sound he could get out. He started moving his arms up to his head jerking, his hands accidentally hitting his head in his distress. Gideon quickly took his hands, holding them firmly to keep from hurting himself. 

“Calm down, Mac. Take in a deep breath and try and relax your vocal cords. The more you relax, the easier it will be to express the sounds you need. Now, I assume you are trying to ask something. Is that correct?”

It was answered with a nod. “And the word starts with a B?” 

“Be,” He started again, “Ca” It was all he could get out and he was desperate to be understood.

“Dr. Reese, could I please speak with you in private?” His father’s voice seemed to tremble. Mac started to shake his head; he wanted to hear an answer. He wanted to know what happened to Rebecca.

“Of course, Mr. Ames.” Gideon looked incredibly concerned – and for once, Mackland couldn’t blame the man for leaving without acknowledging him. His father’s face was pale white and the doctor in him feared that he would collapse; the physiatrist apparently felt the same way as he gripped the older man tightly by the elbow and led him from the room. Fear of his father’s reaction only served to increase Mac’s anxiety and he worried that his future wife was dead.

One of the positive effects of being unable to communicate properly was that one could learn how to listen. He concentrated until he could hear the quietly spoken words of both doctor and his father outside his door. He could hear Dr. Reese coaching his father’s breathing, trying to get him to calm down. Dr. Cooper who had remained behind to update Mac’s chart, poked his head out the door to see if his colleague needed assistance. “Please excuse me, Dr. Ames. I’m going to go check on your father. I’ll be right back, I promise.” With that, the man walked out and called Nurse Jane to bring the blood pressure equipment to him.

Mac closed his eyes and focused on listening. It wasn’t difficult, by now his father’s voice could be heard from China. His father did not often get angry; he would rather remain rational than emotional. Now, it was Mac’s turn to try to remain calm -- he did not want to be sedated again. 

Gideon’s smooth and caring voice rang through the commotion, “Mr. Ames, please, just try and keep your voice down. You don’t want your son to overhear you. Now, you think that he’s asking about someone named Rebecca?”

“Yes!” Cullen’s voice was clipped, tense. “That bitch—”

“Mr. Ames! That’s enough.” The doctor spoke softly and Mackland missed what was being said for a couple of minutes. But what he heard next took his breath away, all attempts at keeping calm now obliterated. His heart started pounding in his chest and for a minute, he felt as if he were going to faint.

“What am I supposed to tell my son, Dr. Reese? Am I supposed to tell him that his fiancé abandoned him at the hospital? That she tried to get the doctors to disconnect his breathing tube? She just wanted him to die so that she could get the money my son left to her in his will! Explain to me how I am going to tell him that the woman he loves used him and then threw him away like garbage?”

Dr. Cooper asked, “Mr. Ames—I was aware of the situation with Ms. St. Laurent. There is a security warning on your son’s chart. I heard about the incident in the Emergency Room at county…”

“I had her thrown out by security!” His father was still shouting, but it was muffled as if he had covered his mouth to keep from screaming at the top of his lungs. “My son was in surgery, fighting for his life and she was trying to stop treatment.” 

Suddenly, the soft tasteless lunch that he was given made a quick reappearance, soaking his gown and sheets. “Oh, god,” he thought. The horrid taste in his mouth only served to heighten his emotions; they swirled around him, twisted his stomach, and ran like acid through his veins. There was a glass of water on the night table and all he wanted was a drink! He wanted to splash his face and drown. Somehow, even the water pitcher seemed to tremble.

Gideon seemed to be the voice of reason. “Is it possible that you misunderstood the situation? Perhaps the young lady merely misinterpreted the medical options?”

Sarcasm was something that their family did well. “Of course, I may have misunderstood her asking the doctors if Mackland would become a vegetable. However, I’m sure that I did not misunderstand when she tried to go over my head as his next-of-kin and issue a do-not-resuscitate order. That bitch tore my family apart. And I won’t have her near him!”

Cooper mentioned, “Your son seems concerned about her. He’s been in a coma for three months, Mr. Ames. All he knows is that she isn’t here, and he wants to know why she’s not.” He paused for a moment, then asked Jane for the visitor log. The squeak of shoes indicated that she was walking towards the room, then pulled out the chart that was hanging by the door. Mac heard her flip through the pages and footsteps walk back to where the group was sitting. “According to the log, she’s never visited him at this long-term care hospital.” 

There was a long pause, then almost timidly Cooper continued, “Mr. Ames, the log shows that your son has only had four visitors since he’s arrived here nearly two and a half months ago – besides yourself, of course. It’s unusual for a man of his stature. I hate to ask this, but doesn’t your son have any friends?”

There was a horrible laugh—more of a cry, and his father answered, “Obviously, he doesn’t, and he doesn’t even know it. I can’t – I can’t tell him! My son’s doing so well! He was able to say his name today! Why did he have to remember her?”

Dr. Reese sighed, “Mr. Ames… Let me handle this. I think it’s best if you go home and rest. This situation needs to be handled delicately. We don’t want your son to suffer any setbacks or any emotional trauma. You’re shaken up and I think you need to lie down, sir. Do you have anyone that can stay with you tonight?”

His father did not answer. Mac heard footsteps walking towards the elevator as well as a pair coming towards his room; By now, he was able to recognize the staff by their footsteps and he knew that Jane was coming to check in on him.

He heard her gasp, then call out for the doctors to come quickly. There was a pounding of steps and then his room was filled with personnel. His eyes were closed, so he could only feel the hands taking his vital signs and hear the voices giving orders.

There was cold wetness spreading across his face and chest as gentle feminine hands cleaned up the mess he made. By now, he knew Jane’s hands from the other nurses, Naomi and Alvin. Her voice was calm and self-assured, speaking to him as if she knew that he could hear her. His father mentioned that the whole team spoke to him whenever they were in Mac’s room, even when he was in a coma, trying to stimulate his senses and get him to wake up. When he awoke, all their voices seemed familiar to him, though he had no memory of them in his life.

The noise died down and he knew that there was only one person left in the room with him. The others had passed the buck to their resident psychiatrist. Gideon Reese’s breathing was slow and deep; it was hypnotic. The bed dipped under the doctor’s weight as he settled himself on the edge. Mac’s eyes fluttered when he felt Reese’s fingers against his neck, taking his pulse before sliding his hand to cup his face, gently patting him. “Mackland, can you open your eyes for me? I know you can hear me. I also know that you probably heard us talking earlier. I’m sorry. I should’ve handled that better. It’s my fault; I should’ve taken your father into a private office…”

“Please, just open your eyes. I want you to see me.” Gideon was eternally patient, waiting until Mac had regained some semblance of composure before prodding him again. 

For some reason he did not want to obey the man; there was no point in opening his eyes. He imagined they would seem pretty bleak to the older man. Mac had no desire to try and speak; he just wanted to be left alone. If what his father had said was true, he was utterly alone. The people he counted on, the people he considered to be close friends and the woman he’d fought for, left him to rot in a hospital. They did not care about him; Rebecca did not love him, not ‘in sickness and in health’ nor ‘death do we part’. He almost married her; if it hadn’t been for the car accident they would’ve already been married; fear flashed, adrenaline pumping through his body. She would’ve sentenced him to death. His face became dotted with sweat and the room seemed to spin, even in the dark.

There was a noise, like the sound of water splashing on the ground. “What the—!” Reese cursed. “Hey! Mac! Stop this. Just breathe!” The doctor’s hands gripped his shoulders tightly, shaking him—trying to gain his attention. “Open your eyes!”

Ames opened his eyes darting from left to right in his panic. His chest heaved under the strain. His vision started clearing, and the fear turned to confusion within a single second. There were things floating around the room; things like the now empty pitcher, flowers, syringes, paper, and medicines were just flying!

His first thought was that he was hallucinating, but Dr. Reese’s reaction indicated that the psychiatrist was also seeing the strange sight. Gideon was staring at him with a mixture of horror, shock, awe, and disbelief. “Are you doing this?” The man gasped as the pitcher collided with his head. The plastic bounced off without injury to either party, but for the surprise. 

The idea that he was ‘doing this’ hadn’t occurred to the neurosurgeon…after all, it was impossible! Things did not just float around, defying gravity—this was a trick, or an optical illusion designed to threaten his mental stability. Perhaps even some type of plot to discredit him in the scientific community?

His mind was so busy whirring with theories and conspiracies that he did not notice Dr. Reese’s movements. A sharp slap across his cheek startled him and he let out a yelp. The objects dropped to the hospital’s linoleum tile at that exact moment. For a long time, neither of them said a word and Mac just listened to their erratic breathing.

When the older man finally decided to say something, it wasn’t quite what Dr. Ames was expecting. He’d been expecting Reese to disprove what they had both seen, to try and find an explanation as to how what had just happened was impossible. What Mac wasn’t expecting was that Reese had seen this before. 

“You know, I used to be in the US Army, Mackland,” he started. “The Army helped me pay for medical school while I did the research for them. You know, it was a strange time in our history. We were still trying to get over the “War to End all Wars”, the atom bombs had fallen, and the Communist threat was starting to worry our leaders… The government was afraid of our enemies spying on us, of attacking us. At the height of the Cold War, the military started doing research on parapsychology—specifically telekinesis and telepathy. Now, trust me, Doctor—I was a skeptic about the entire thing. Honestly, I thought the government was wasting their time and money trying to find people with ‘psychic powers’. I rolled my eyes at all the ‘believers’, silently laughing at their stupidity and naivety at the science fiction of it all.”

Mackland watched Reese’s eyes dim as he flashed back nearly twenty years. “Now, I’m just astounded at how single-minded and clueless I was back then. Shakespeare once wrote: ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ I’ve only met two people in my life who I truly considered to be psychic, and it seems that now—I’ve met a third.” Gideon trailed off, studying his patient. “Though I assume from your reaction, this is a new occurrence...possibly a result of the car accident. I’ll ask radiology to take another set of x-rays of your brain; perhaps we missed something on the first set of films.”

Getting up, Dr. Reese took a hold of his chart and wrote in the orders for the x-rays. Once he was finished, he went back over to the bed and sat back down. He started rubbing his jaw, “How are you with all of this, I wonder?” Gideon put a hand on Mac’s shoulder and squeezed it, the older man’s eyes filled with pity, which made Mac react—pulling away from him as quickly and as best as he could. “I wish you could talk to me. I’m worried about you, Mac. This might be too much for you to handle all at once.”

“I came in here to talk to you about your fiancé and your father... and now, we’ve both been given the shock of a lifetime.” As he spoke, Mackland started to turn his face away, looking towards the wall for answers. He tried to stop it, but Reese’s fingers turned his head back so that their eyes were locked. “I can only imagine how exhausted you are right now—mentally, emotionally, and physically—but I’m not going to leave you alone in this room until I know that you’ll be alright.” 

The neurosurgeon’s only escape at this point was to close his eyes and not open them, no matter how much the psychiatrist begged him to respond. He wasn’t aware of the passing of time, but soon, Gideon Reese gave up and left the room. As he’d promised, another member of the team sat in the room until it was morning.

The rest of the staff came at their usual times throughout the week. Matthew and Bob, the physical and occupational therapists, respectively came to work with him in regaining his strength and flexibility. Most of the time, he looked forward to their torture, as the end result would be getting up and walking out of the hospital. Bob massaged his hands, trying to get him to stop clenching them into fists, talking the whole time about the process. Matthew was the quiet one of the group as he rarely said anything besides his usual greeting. They had a routine, performing different exercises based on what day of the week it was. Each therapy focused on a different part of his body. Today, it was painful. His muscles refused to cooperate and Mackland just wanted to be left alone. Matthew stopped working on his legs, immediately noticing there was an issue, and walked towards the head of his bed.

“Dr. Ames, are you alright?” Matthew took his wrist and pressed the pulse point, looking at his watch to calculate his heart rate. “Bob, he’s clocking at nearly 110. Get Dr. Cooper.” The other quickly left the room, while Matthew turned his attention back to his patient. “Dr. Ames, did we hurt you today?” 

Ames did not bother to respond; it wouldn’t matter anyway—they could all do whatever they wanted to him as he was powerless to stop them. Matthew started touching him; the strong hands gripped at Mac’s shoulder and hips. “Dr. Ames, I’m going to turn you on your side. Just try and relax. I’ll do all the work for you.” The therapist quickly had Mac in the recovery position, on his side with his arms and legs locked together to stabilize him. The therapist trailed hands down his back, discovering several painful areas that had Mackland groaning pathetically. Mac tried, as hard as he could to push Matthew away. Did not they all know that he just wanted to be left alone! “What’s going on with you today, doc? I don’t think I’ve seen you this tense before. Your muscles are going to freeze if you keep this up.”

Dr. Cooper came in a minute later, “What’s going on in here? Are you causing trouble, Mackland?” The physician pressed a cold stethoscope on his chest, asking him to breathe in and out. Mackland ignored him—hell, he ignored all of them. He did not care anymore about anything.

They must have slipped him a sedative, perhaps even a muscle relaxant because the world became cloudy and he quickly slipped into a much-needed sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

When Mackland woke again, he discovered that he’d been changed out of his gown and put into another one. His catheter had been changed out, leaving that particular part of his body sore, and several other I.V.s had been inserted. The EKG machine, which he’d lost earlier as his condition improved, was back, the electrodes making his chest itch when they shaved his chest hair for better placement, but he couldn’t find the energy to even scratch the spots. He had been moved so that he was facing the opposite wall now—there was a new addition, Mackland noticed. It made his eyes wrinkle in confusion; there was a drawing. A child’s crayon drawing of rainbows and smiley faces, but he did not know any children.

Soon, his thoughts grew dark again and the picture became insignificant to him. It did not matter, because nothing did anymore. The doctors came on their rounds, checking up on him, examining him, and ordering more tests. The nurses gave him sponge baths—the shame of it all only served to make him hide inside himself as they completed the task. Frank, the speech therapist was unable to do his job; as Mackland refused to acknowledge the man. Frank talked to him for an hour, then left the room, mumbling that he was talking to the wall under his breath. 

It continued that way for a while. The passing of time the only thing that changed in the room. His father stopped by every day; the same as usual. Every day, the old man cried out his apologies, trying to get him to ‘snap out of it’, as he put it. The first time he heard his father sobbing out that he was sorry, it practically moved him to tears. It was a huge struggle to keep from reacting and showing that Cullen was getting to him. He started ignoring him—forcing himself not to listen to his father’s voice (or anyone else’s for that matter). 

Gideon came by at least twice a day, talking about Mac’s newfound abilities and how special he was, about his potential… the psychiatrist tried to convince Mackland that just because the woman he loved and every friend he had abandoned him, did not mean that he was alone. The doctor kept pushing, recommending a psychic who could help. What did Mac care about her or her experience? He wasn’t a damned witch-doctor, he was a broken man.

All of the information, the attempts at giving him some hope all passed through him without infiltrating. He was stone –impenetrable, cold, and unmoving. Nothing could touch or hurt him anymore. 

One day, Cullen took hold of his son’s hand and held it tightly. This time, it was clear his father had gotten over his guilt and now, they were back to where they started: with anger and disappointment. “I know you can hear me! I know that you’re in there! I was there when you woke and when you said your first word—I’ve been here every day since your accident! I’ve neglected my business and my friends to be here for you, son. I know that you’re upset! I know that you’re angry and depressed and everything else you must be feeling, but you need to get up! I can’t sit here anymore, Mackland… I can’t sit here every day just watching you stare at the wall! I have responsibilities—we both do! And while you lay here and ignore yours; I can no longer ignore mine. The world is spiraling, son. You’ve been laying here while the world passes you by. There are people that need me—need my help. I thought that I could help you, but perhaps I can’t. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to help himself.” His father kissed him on the forehead, his eyes teary. “I’ll visit you during my lunch hour tomorrow, son. I won’t be able to stay long.” The man trailed off, thinking. “Your life is worth fighting for, Mackland. I’ll be here when you realize that. I love you.” With that, he walked away, the door closing behind him.

He did not know what to think about that…it wasn’t the first time that his father had gotten fed up with him or his choices. It was as if he were flashing back to college. The only difference was this time, he had no desire to reconcile. He had no desires at all. This time, his father kept his promises; it caused him to feel bewildered and shocked.

The days all ran together blending in what felt like a never-ending nightmare. No one seemed to understand that he just wanted to be alone. Why couldn’t they all just leave him be?

“Dr. Ames?” An all-too-familiar voice called for his attention. He blinked rapidly, confused. It wasn’t time for physical therapy, yet Matthew and Bob were here, accompanied by Dr. Reese. He shot them a look, one that said, “What the hell do you want?” 

Dr. Gideon Reese pointedly looked at the therapists, and they wordlessly started lifting Mackland off the bed after disconnecting him from the heart monitor. The neurosurgeon tried to fight the hold but was too weak to stop them. They lifted his body and manipulated him into a full-body wheelchair, securing his legs into the footrests as well as velcroing his waist to the back of the chair. Gideon kneeled in front of him, while the others rearranged the IVs to the wheelchair, “I can imagine that you are wondering what we are doing... I know that I don’t have to tell you that your condition has been rapidly declining, and you are unwilling to work with us. You’ve left us with two options, Dr. Ames: the first being, we can give up on you and recommend that you are transferred to a permanent nursing home or we can choose to help you through this difficult time. We’ve all chosen to help you—your father included and today, I’m going to remind you of who you are.”

With that, Gideon stood up and started pushing his wheelchair through the hall after thanking Bob and Matthew for their assistance. It was the first time that Mackland remembered being out of the hospital room that had become essentially his in nearly a week. He looked around curiously as they passed signs for radiology, oncology, and maternity, ending in physical therapy.

Mac was pushed towards the far wall, close enough to see the entire room, but far enough away that they did not disturb anyone. Dr. Reese sat on a bench beside his patient, smiling at the people who passed them by. “Mackland,” Gideon spoke softly, “do you see that young man over by the window? His name is James and he just turned twenty-one.” It was only then that Mac noticed a boy working on the parallel bars. Upon further examination, the neurosurgeon discovered that James had artificial legs.

Dr. Reese continued, “James joined the Marines when he was eighteen—the boy just couldn’t wait to be a part of the brotherhood. He was sent to Vietnam to fight and barely a month into his tour, the boy was captured by the enemy and tortured—they’d stabbed him in the legs with rusty knives. When he was rescued, weeks later, his colleagues rushed him to a hospital tent in the middle of the jungle. It was filled with other men who’d been shot, injured, and dying. By the time the triage got to him, it was too late. He watched as they cut off his legs with a local due to lack of general anesthesia. And if that wasn’t enough torture in his lifetime, they ran out of morphine on the second-day post-op.”

“I’ve seen war, Dr. Ames; I’ve seen men come back from war. I’ve spoken with them and tried to help them through the horrors that they’ve seen out there. Some of them, don’t want to be helped. They drown themselves in drugs and booze, trying to erase the memories that have been seared into their very souls. And some of them, like James, fight to get back their lives.” The older man paused, letting his words sink into the stubborn patient.

“Perhaps I’m being judgmental, Dr. Ames, in comparing you to him… I see James, who had his legs sawn off and fights daily to get up and walk on prostheses. He’s seen his friends killed in the middle of that goddamned war and yet, he still prays to go out there again so that he can help them fight the good fight. I talk to that kid every day, Mackland, and every day, I leave his room with a smile on my face because I’m just so proud of him and everything he accomplishes.” Gideon turned to look straight into the doctor’s eyes, “Then, I have to go into your room… I sit by your bed and see you waste away right in front of me, unwilling to try to get back your life. You’re suffering from depression, a severe case of it and while, I understand the reasons why you feel the way you do—I can’t just watch this downward spiral and do nothing.”

“This is your life now. You can choose to accept it and work towards a happier and brighter future. Or you can continue to feel sorry for yourself.” The doctor's face was serious, “I’ll give you a short time to think about it. Tomorrow, I’ll stop by your room. Frank will accompany me—and if you agree, he’ll start working on your speech therapy again. If you disagree, I’ll speak to your father regarding the nursing home. Unfortunately, we don’t have any other options—and the decision is entirely yours.” Dr. Reese stood up and walked away, leaving him in the physical therapy room for a while, watching the young marine force himself to stand.


	8. Chapter 8

It wasn’t a miraculous change, but when Frank and Gideon arrived the next morning, Ames did not turn away from them. He listened to them when they directed him; he made the decision to stop fighting the people who were trying to help him and instead, to fight for what could be.

Cullen visited him daily; the tension between them started to wane as Mac slowly began to realize that his father hadn’t abandoned him, even when he’d been at his worst. 

It took several more weeks before he was able to speak more than a word at a time, string words into small sentences. It was a struggle to make himself understood, but Frank continued to encourage him and provided the stability that Mac desperately needed. He started to open, relaxing in their presence and, much to Dr. Reese’s pleasure, smiling sometimes. 

Such a simple thing, a smile was. It not only relaxed his body, but his mood improved, and his outlook became positive. Everyone around him became less nervous and more willing to work with him, even on days when he became frustrated with the pace of his improvement. He still couldn’t walk, although Matthew promised him that they’d start working on strengthening the muscles of his legs. Soon, he would be in the physical therapy room, learning how to stand and step, just like James.

Gideon took him on several more ‘field-trips’, visiting other patients through the floor. Mackland was honored to finally meet the young man who’d inspired him to get up and move. Dr. Reese was right about James’ sense of humor, as he made jokes and played pranks on the staff. Just being in the same room as the young marine brightened the day. 

As for his psychic ability, the entire thing seemed like a fluke. He’d been able to float things across the room on the worst day of his life, but not able to move a spoon across a tray since then. His neurological scans showed an improvement and increased blood flow to the pituitary region of his brain. It was an urban legend that the pituitary gland housed the so-called sixth sense. The scientist in him wanted to read the parapsychology research that Dr. Reese conducted during his time in the military and he was able to ask him for copies.

Unfortunately, once he’d gotten the papers in his hands, Mackland struggled to hold the folder and turn the pages. His fingers, once lifesaving tools, now lacked the fine motor control needed to hold a pencil or turn pages of a book. Bob, the occupational therapist, gave him foam squeeze balls to exercise his hands and brought him a typewriter for him to practice flexing his fingers. The typewriter also facilitated his ability to communicate, especially when he got words confused or was unable to clearly annunciate a sound. 

Dr. Cooper was happy with his progress, and soon, the monitors and the IVs disappeared. Unfortunately, the catheter remained, and he stared longingly at the adjacent bathroom. He wanted so desperately to be able to use the facility without assistance. It was one of his ‘goals’ set forth by his medical team. 

He started into a comfortable routine with the staff and his fellow patients. People changed, some people got better and went home, while others did not. His favorite nurse, Naomi, was forced to quit her job. He’d heard the rumors floating around the department that her father had a stroke, and she was needed at home to care for him full-time. At first, he’d kept in touch with her—sending her typed letters, but when there was no response from her, he’d gradually stopped. 

The mystery of the childish drawing in his room was solved when Edward, his butler, arrived with his family. His five-year-old daughter Emily presented him with a picture of what she claimed was a pony and proudly taped it next to the drawing on his wall she’d previously given him of the rainbow. Edward introduced his lovely wife, Kelly, and his eight-year-old son, Gregory. It was a nice visit and incredibly kind of Edward to think of him. After the family left, Mackland felt ashamed of himself for taking the man for granted. It was clear that Edward considered him a friend; Mac had done nothing to earn Edward’s kindness—for the longest time, Mac thought of him as nothing but ‘the hired help’. 

Soon, word of his awakening and improving condition spread through his former circle of so-called friends. He started to get ‘Get Well Soon’ cards, each one more annoying than the next, telling him how much they missed him and wished him a speedy recovery. His favorite, of course, was the never-ending ‘we have you in our prayers’ crap. Those people were not his friends, and he did not care how often they thought of him. He put them out of his mind—they were inconsequential to him.

It took about another month, but finally, Mackland was able to start physical therapy in the rehabilitation center once he was able to sit up on his own. The situation was strange—he needed to be taught how to do something that he’d been able to do since he was a year old. Matthew was calm, collected, even when Mac vented his frustrations at the man. His recovery was slow—slower than he’d hoped. He grew tired of lying in a hospital bed. Mac itched to do something to escape the routine.

Matthew helped him into his wheelchair and threw a towel at his head. Mac wiped his sweaty face with it, grumbling. Matthew rolled his eyes, then said his goodbyes for the day—leaving Mackland to wheel himself back to his room. Months of occupational therapy and ‘ball-squeezing’ strengthened his hands and arms enough to manage the wheelchair. His upper body was starting to fill out; no longer did he look like someone who’d been in a coma for months. 

Usually, as he passed the nurses’ station, Mac would chat with the nurses before going back to his room; practicing his speech. He’d become quite the conversationalist over the past few weeks—making up for the lost time. This time, Nurse Alvin was intently flipping through a patient’s chart with a phone pressed against his ear and did not even look up as he wheeled his way into their department. He shook off the feeling of disappointment and focused on making his way into the room without bumping into anything. Mackland was so intent on maneuvering the chair through the door, that he did not notice the woman sitting by his bed. 

It took a few seconds for him to realize that he wasn’t imagining her and a few more seconds before he could even think of a reaction to seeing her in his room. The wheelchair rolled back slightly when his hands unconsciously slipped off the hand rims. It was so quiet that he could hear Alvin in the station behind him speaking on the phone. 

Rebecca St. Laurent was as beautiful as ever. She did not seem to have changed in the six or seven months they’d been apart. She was dressed as if she was attending a cocktail party, not visiting someone in the hospital. Especially someone who she’d abandoned. Her makeup was perfection; no smudges or blotches—no signs that she’d been crying over him. 

It was something that Mackland had considered; some people just couldn’t visit a hospital— they couldn’t bear to see their loved ones hurt. He was willing to think that of her, if only because there was a part of him that still loved her. Seeing Rebecca in his room now—her body language confident and self-assured, Mackland knew it wasn’t the case. 

He’d dreamed of what he would say when he finally confronted her—but all of the speech preparation and practicing was for nothing. Seeing her in front of him left him completely speechless and in shock.

Rebecca stood up and made her way to stand in front of him. It was funny that the first thing that he noticed was the ring she wore; it was certainly big enough to catch his attention, even if it wasn’t at his current eye-level. His memory was filled with holes—especially the moments before his accident, but he could remember the ring that he bought her. The diamond that sparkled in front of his face wasn’t the one he’d purchased for her.

“Mackland. You look well.” Her voice startled him, making him blink rapidly. He couldn’t seem to comprehend the fact that she was really standing in front of him. When he did not speak, she continued, “I came to see how you were doing. I heard that you woke from your coma—that you were recovering.” There was a long pause; perhaps she was waiting for him to say something.

“Well,” her tone became cold, “I figured that your father would’ve told you about what happened that night in the E.R. I won’t apologize for doing what I thought was best. The doctors told me that there was less than a twenty-five percent chance that you’d ever wake up—and if you did, you’d be brain damaged. Your father had security THROW ME OUT!” She was still angry. “He did not care that I was about to become your wife. He barred me from your side.”

Rebecca ran her manicured fingers through her styled hair, posture rigid. “You’d been in a coma, Mackland. For three months. I never dreamed that you would wake up.” Mackland stared at the glass vase next to his bed—it was vibrating. Rebecca did not seem to even notice it. 

“Mackland, can you even hear me? God, do you even understand a word I’m saying?” She backed away from him with what looked like disgust on her face. “Well,” Rebecca huffed, “I wanted to tell you that I’m happy that you’re recovering…”

When Mac finally found his voice—it was rough, “So, who is he?”

She jerked in surprise, obviously not expecting him to talk. “What do you mean?”

His hands were shaking, but he managed to lift his finger to point at the shining rock. She seemed put-out and flustered. Apparently, things weren’t going the way Rebecca had planned. 

Things weren’t going the way that he planned either. His heart was pounding in his chest; his mouth was dry and he felt like he was battling a raging river in his mind. He fought hard to maintain his calm—fear ate away at him; once the dam broke, Mackland knew he would never get it back up. There was something—a power inside of him—that scared him. What he’d once considered a fluke couldn’t be denied now. Mac was a hairsbreadth away from exploding—literally exploding. He couldn’t even look at her and determinedly kept his gaze on the vase.

“Mackland, you have to understand—I was lonely. I thought you were going to die. I desperately needed comfort and Peter was there for me. He helped me through it all, your accident, your father…” Rebecca said defensively.

The vase cracked, water streamed from it, and dripped to the floor. Rebecca whirled around at the sound of breaking glass, staring at the vase incomprehensively for a couple of seconds before facing him again. 

Mac bit his lip as he thought, going through all the ‘Peters’ that he knew; one of them popping out as a candidate: “Prentiss?” Mac distinctly remembered the man’s noticeable jealously at their relationship and his comments about being a ‘lucky man’ to have her.

She had the decency to look ashamed, “Yes, Dr. Peter Prentiss.” There was another uncomfortable silence for a couple of minutes. When she spoke again, he felt the dam start to break. “We’re getting married in less than a month. I just—I thought you should know.” With that, she stepped away from him and left the room; destroying all of his barriers in the process.

Mackland’s breath stopped, and he felt his entire body start to shake. It wasn’t a small tremble; it was like a full-blown epileptic seizure, and it was strong enough to make him fall out of his wheelchair. White spots appeared before his eyes and he gasped as his lungs demanded air. Everything went out of control, the dam was obliterated! Shards flew through the room from the shattered glass; mirrors, vases, even the medical equipment all exploded as if a bomb had gone off.

Alvin must’ve heard the commotion because he almost materialized in front of the fallen man. Alvin touched his hand, and with that touch—Mackland’s world would be forever changed. 

What could only be described as a vision tore through the psychic’s mind; Mackland couldn’t describe it, there were no words to explain what he was seeing, and he did not understand the images flashing through his mind-eye. 

The experience left him in a complete panic; he couldn’t contain the power that was rushing inside of him. The room itself was starting to buckle—cracks forming along the walls and up the ceiling. Pieces of the drywall were flaking off and falling like snowflakes on his face. Mackland heard the doctors stampede into the room; their voices drowned out by the pounding he heard. 

It was only out of sheer survival and self-preservation that he was able to ‘plug it up’—picturing a cork inserting itself into the cracks of the broken dam. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to hold it, but soon, the power slowed to a trickle. 

When Mackland was finally able to open his eyes again, he would never forget what he saw. The room was utterly destroyed; it was like the aftermath of a tornado. Alvin lay on the floor next to him, the nurse’s hands were covering his face--blood seeped through Alvin’s fingers. Doctor Cooper kneeled next to his nurse and pressed gauze along his temple. A piece of glass was still embedded in the nurse’s face, frighteningly close to his right eye. 

They were both dragged out of the room, the medical personnel moving quickly to help them. Mackland had heard an off-hand comment about an earthquake. He did not even feel the cuts on his face and hands—the emotional pain and fear were worse. He’d almost killed a man! This time, he welcomed the prick of the needle and his descent to darkness.


	9. Chapter 9

He squinted at the light when he finally awoke, his head lolling around his shoulders in an attempt to shield his eyes. His mouth sticky, as if he’d had a hangover without the benefit of a good stiff drink. Spotting a pitcher of water by his bedside, he reached for it only to knock it over the floor. 

“Shit,” Mackland swore, then groaned at the pounding of his head.

“Hmmm!” An unfamiliar voice huffed at him, “All this nastiness, over a woman! A skinny little tramp you could probably snap like a twig.”

The words caused him to jerk; his newfound powers triggered and flung something within his vicinity towards the woman. He heard a thump and watched in horror as the object bounced off her forehead. She gasped and raised a hand to rub at her forehead.

The mysterious woman did not even give him a moment to open his mouth to apologize. Mac saw a blur whipping towards his crotch. On the next beat, he hollered in pain, rolling his body into a ball and clutching his groin. Stars were dancing in front of his eyes.

“Don’t you go throwing things at me! I’ll beat you with my purse! And trust me, the next time, I’ll put a brick in it!” The dark-skinned woman had both hands on her hips and glowered down at him.

Once he was able to think again, he was able to gasp out one syllable: “Who?”

“Huff,” she puffed, “The incredible Dr. Ames doesn’t know everything? How amazing!” The sarcasm was obvious—but unwarranted, as the man had no idea who she was. Mackland was raised in a polite society in which strangers were treated cordially. This woman had come from a different school of thought.

He watched as her eyes darkened, the scowl becoming almost openly hostile. “My name is Missouri Moseley, Dr. Ames. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The words were practically spat out at him. He opened his mouth to ask her what he’d done wrong when she cut him off again. “Was that ‘polite’ enough for you?”

Mac’s head was still spinning, the flood gates that had held his power was still broken down. The power itself had trickled down, steam-like but still active. He closed his eyes and fought for control. Control of his abilities and the current situation. In all honesty, he had no clue what was happening, but his entire life revolved around his ability to control his surroundings… at least, that’s what he believed before his accident. 

Strengthening his resolve, Mackland opened his eyes and glared back at the woman sitting by his bedside. “Well, Ms. Moseley, what are you doing here?”

“I’m here because you destroyed a hospital room and nearly took down the roof because of your little temper tantrum. I’m here to keep you from hurting anyone else.” 

The last word brought back his memory. The explosion, the glass, and Alvin—covered in blood. “Alvin? Is he—is he alright?”

Moseley pursed her lips, her sarcasm softening, “He’s alive. He’s going to have some scarring on his face, hands, and arms. But he’s alive and he still has his eyes.”

“Oh, God.” Mac cried, “I have to see him. I have to apologize.” He sat up, almost forgetting the weakness in his legs until he tried to stand without support. He controlled the fall as to not twist on the descent to the floor. When he landed in a heap, Mac threw his head back and sighed. He looked around the room for his cane. He could usually manage the distance of a small room with the cane, just back and forth to the bathroom really; the rest of the time, he needed a wheelchair. He extended his hand to reach for the cane, screaming when the cane flew from across the room towards him. Mackland covered his face with both hands and hollered when it belted him in the gut. It bounced off his abdomen and fell to the floor with a clatter.

Missouri Moseley did not even get up, just arched her eyebrow at him. “Really? I think that you should get your telekinesis under control first. Don’t you?”

His anger spiked; the woman was getting on his last nerve! She would never understand how he felt; not now—not ever. “What the hell do you know about it?”

This made her stand up, perching above his fallen form. “Oh, I know more than you can know, Dr. Ames. Your accident has caused your latent psychic abilities to emerge later in life. What can I tell you? You’re a late bloomer.”

“No. You’re wrong; my so-called abilities were triggered after the accident.” Mackland was adamant; he had never had any abilities before.

Missouri smiled at him condescendingly, “Silly me, to think that I would know more about this than you. I mean, after all, you’ve probably read a couple of books on the subject.” Her tone changed, became hard, “Psychic abilities –strong ones like yours? They don’t just appear after a conk to the head. It’s in your blood, Dr. Ames. It’s been there all along—and they’ve been tightly hidden away from you. Until now.”

The man shook his head, unwilling to accept her word for gospel. “What do you mean, ‘Until now?’”

“I felt your power across states, Dr. Ames. You’re incredibly strong—hell, you might be the strongest psychic that I’ve ever met. And, right now? You’re one of the most dangerous. I’m here on the Guardian’s behalf. I’m here to determine if you should be taken care of.” Her words did not disguise the threat. It made him freeze. He couldn’t even get off the floor; he was completely impotent to stop her if she became violent.

“What?” He gasped. “What the hell are you talking about?” Mac struggled to stand up, forgetting how to use the cane in his panic to escape her.

She stopped him, gripping his arm once he was upright. “I’m not going to kill you, Mackland.” Her voice grew gentle as if she knew how afraid he’d become. “I’m here to help you.”


	10. Chapter 10

Mackland ached for a drink—any kind of drink. While he’d been living his ‘cushy’ life—there were ghosts, spirits, demons, werewolves, and other entities that he’d thought of as science-fiction roaming around the world. Evil truly existed. 

He’d listened when Missouri put it all on the line, detailing everything from the potential dangers of his abilities to a secret society that protected man from the supernatural. At the end of it, it had shaken him so badly, he needed to lie down. Missouri said that she understood and left him to rest.

She’d also indicated that if his control wavered again—the secret society, this “Brotherhood” would have no choice but to keep him from hurting anyone. It left him feeling like a monster – a freak of nature that needed to be hunted down.

He did not know what he was capable of—Missouri suggested that the telekinesis was only a small part of his abilities. She’d ‘read’ him and told him of the psychometric and slightly telepathic tendencies she’d found in him. It seemed that he not only had the ability to move things with his mind, but he could find people by handing objects, and read minds in a few individuals. 

It was overwhelming. 

So overwhelming, in fact, that he was terrified of being alone with his thoughts. Mac looked at the phone next to his bed, his eyes filled with tears and he was ashamed to let them trail down his face. He had no one to call. Not one single friend that he could trust with this information. He sobbed softly, hands covering his face so as not to bother the nursing staff…

After the emotional release, Mackland swallowed at the lump in his throat and called the one person he discovered that he could trust. “Dad? I need you. Could you please come?”

Mackland swore that his father must’ve called for a police escort to the hospital; he was there within fifteen minutes. Cullen rushed into his hospital room, “Mackland? Are you alright, son?” 

“I need to get out of here, Dad. It’s time. I just—I need your help. I can’t stay here anymore.” He’d made the decision shortly before his father’s arrival; there was no way that he would stay—not after he’d nearly killed Alvin. Missouri was right—he needed to train his new abilities. Like learning how to speak and walk again, it was a trait he needed to exercise; he just needed a secluded area to practice without worrying if he would hurt anyone.

Cullen looked shocked, “Son, I heard about the earthquake and that nurse that risked his life to get you out. It wasn’t your fault. The man will be fine—there’s no need to leave. You’re doing so well. The doctors tell me that soon, you won’t need the canes. Your speech is coming along as well. I don’t even notice the slight hesitation anymore.” 

Mac shook his head, “No, it’s not about that. Something has come up. I need some space to think and work things out in my mind.”

Cullen stared at him intently, “What is all of this about, Mackland? I don’t understand. Talk to me, son.”

There were so many things running through his mind that it was hard to choose which one to start with. Rebecca’s betrayal, his abilities, the destruction he’d caused, and the person he’d hurt. There was a part of him that was terrified to speak about any of it aloud; it would make it real. The other part of him was just afraid that his father would abandon him if he found out he was a freak. 

“I can’t explain it. I just know that I need to leave this hospital. Now.” Mac took in a breath and lifted his legs out of the bed. He reached for his canes and gently levered himself onto his feet. His father stood by his side awkwardly. He was somewhat steady as he made his way across the room and to the drawers that housed his clothes. A thick plastic bag, provided by the hospital, was hanging from a hook by the cabinet and he quickly made use of it. The struggle to balance on the canes and to pack a bag was great. Cullen quickly stepped forward to assist him. The bag was taken from his hands and he was steadied with a hand against his back. 

Cullen dropped the bag to the floor and turned his son gently to face him. “Mackland, calm down now. Everything is going to be alright, son. Now, please… talk to me.” Cullen’s face was so earnest that Mackland believed him and felt comforted.

His father led them to the nearest chairs and sat them both down. Mac was weary. He folded himself in the chair, slumping in misery. He closed his eyes as if he were in pain and wished for a time machine. He felt his ability bubbling in his mind and started to panic. Things in the room vibrated, he could feel the stream building in intensity. He moaned and cried out, his hands fisting his hair to keep it in control. He could hear Cullen in the background—calling his name in his concern. It wouldn’t take long for the river to overflow.

“I barely leave you for a few hours, Dr. Ames. And here you are, getting yourself in trouble again!” Missouri yelled at him. “What did I tell you? Do you want me to hit you with my purse?” When he was able to look up, he found that she wasn’t alone; Dr. Reese trailed behind her.

She walked over to the bed and placed a box-like device next to him. It was like a switch had been flicked. The vibrations stopped, but his head throbbed in pain. Whatever that device was, it was keeping him from releasing the mental explosion.

His father looked at the woman with suspicion, but as etiquette dictated, he stood up to introduce himself. “I’m sorry, I haven’t had the pleasure of your acquaintance. My name is Cullen Ames,” he nodded towards his son, “Mackland’s father.” 

Missouri smiled at Cullen and Mac’s mouth dropped open. He hadn’t seen a kind look from her since their initial conversation, yet now, she was pleasant towards his father. They shook hands, before allowing Dr. Reese to do the same.

Reese spoke, “Mac, I hope you don’t mind the intrusion. I’m not sure if you remember our earlier conversation, but I met this young woman during my studies. She’s incredible at what she does, and I believe her tutelage would be incredibly beneficial to you. I know what happened the day of the ‘earthquake’; She says she has resources and experiences that I do not. I think that it would be best to listen to her. Especially in light of what was about to happen a few minutes ago.” 

Mac was grateful that Gideon had left it vague, as to not worry his father. He stared at the psychiatrist, judging him to be truthful in having his best interests at heart. If it weren’t for them walking into the room, he might have hurt or killed his father. The nightmare of his father lying on the ground covered in blood would give him nightmares for weeks if he allowed it.

“I need to get out of here.” Mac pleaded. 

Reese looked at Missouri and she nodded. Gideon spoke softly, walking over to kneel by his chair to look him in the eyes. “Mac, listen—we’re going to help you. There are people out there who have been through what you’re going through, and they are willing to speak with you. It’s going to be alright.” The man patted the pale doctor’s hand. “Why doesn’t Missouri help you back to bed? You can rest for a bit while your father and I make arrangements. I think you’re right about needing to leave the hospital. You’ve made incredible progress; we can arrange for out-patient home therapy for you.”

Gideon stood up and motioned to his father. He was gently guiding the older man to his office, leaving Mac with the icy woman who seemed to have a problem with him. He waved a hand towards the box, “What is it?”

Missouri sat in the chair that Cullen had vacated. She took in a breath, huffing as she answered, “It’s called an Elemental Trap. It’s a feedback device for psychics. It blocks a person from using their abilities—a dampener. If they try, they’ll get a shock. My father designed them.” She said it with pride.

“You’ve gotten yourself into quite a mess, Ames. You can’t just allow your emotions to overtake you—especially while you’re still learning to restrain your abilities.” She was scolding him, like a mother to a child.

His first thought was to deny it, to argue that he did have emotional control—but the events as of late proved that a lie. “What do I need to do?” 

“#1. Pack a bag. #2. Get yourself on your feet –the faster, the better. One of the hunters in the Brotherhood has offered his home to you. The Guardian has given his permission to allow you to study with me—James Murphy is going to assist and shelter you.” Missouri stated matter-of-factly as if his life had been planned out for him.

“Explain to me again, who is this Guardian?” Mac still felt the need to get as much information as possible before making a decision.

“That information is need-to-know. You don’t. Any other questions?” She glared at him, daring him to ask her another question

“Where are we going?” He smirked at her, now becoming used to her glowering face.

“New Haven, Kentucky.” She did not give him another opportunity to question her. Missouri just left him sitting there gazing at the little black box keeping him sane.


	11. Chapter 11

His father arranged to have a private jet fly him, Ms. Moseley, and the necessary equipment for his continued recovery to the farmhouse this ‘James Murphy’ owned against his better judgment. Once they landed in Kentucky, a van would make the long trek to the house. According to his father, it was quite difficult to find transportation to the house. The farm was in the middle of nowhere. It made his father worry—that they would be unable to quickly get help if Mackland would need it, but it brought him a sense of comfort. If no one was around him, no one could get hurt.

He carried the Elemental Trap everywhere, like a security blanket. Until he was safely housed, he couldn’t trust that he’d be able to hold it together. His heart beat out of his chest in the jet, the fear of somehow causing the plane to crash making the flight mentally torturous. The drive was less worrisome, as there was nothing but fields, cows, and the occasional corner church mixed between the few farmhouses seen from the country road. It could’ve even been considered beautiful; Mac did not remember the last time he’d seen the sky so clear or breathed the air so fresh. The hum of the van and the lack of conversation gave Mac plenty of opportunity to close his eyes to sleep, but the anxiety of the unknown kept him wide awake.

The driver called out that they’d arrived almost a half-hour later, parking the van in front of his temporary sanctuary. Mac tentatively made his way out of the van, using his crutches for balance; Missouri had already hopped out and had made her way to the front porch. He took the few moments he had alone to look around the farm. From where he was standing, he could see the stereotypical red barn, a white picket fence, and further away, he could make out a lake. He also noticed a doghouse placed beside the fence.

This was the type of place he’d only read about in books; a far cry from New York City or any of the golf retreat and resort areas that he’d frequented on vacations. Mac imagined that this James Murphy was some type of stereotypical country hick that had no clue about the real world… Just a red neck hunter.

“You planning on standin’ there all day or you gonna get your skinny butt in here?” His favorite person yelled out from the front door. Biting back an angry response, Mac slowly made his way to the porch. Looking down, he saw that someone had built a sloped ramp up the few steps to the front door. The kindness brought a lump through his throat. A perfect stranger seemed to care about him more than people he had known since his college years.

The door opened and a man stepped out with a welcoming smile. “You must be Dr. Mackland Ames. Missouri has told me much about you. I am James Murphy, but please call me Jim. Come in.” Jim held the door open for Mac as he made his way into the cozy home, prying off the dog who’d excitedly tried to jump at him. By the time he’d been escorted to the couch, his legs were trembling. He leaned his head back, panting and wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. Missouri passed him without a word and sat on the chair across the room, as far away from each other as they could get.

“Can I get you anything, Dr. Ames?” Jim asked him, a worried frown marking his youthful face. “You look like you’re in pain.”

“No, I’m fine. I just needed to sit down. My legs—they’re still weak. I can only walk short distances. And please, call me Mac. I can’t thank you enough for allowing me to stay with you. You must be a brave man to risk your wellbeing.” He sighed, reaching into his pocket to pull out the black box. Reverently, he placed it on the end table nearest his host. “Do you know what this is?”

“Yes. Of course, it’s a black box.” Murphy replied, calmly as he picked up the box and turned it in his hands. “What do you think this is?”

“It’s an Elemental Trap,” Mac explained, “It dampens my psychic powers.” 

Jim smiled gently, “Yes, that is what an elemental trap is; unfortunately, this,” Jim held out the box to Mac, “is not one of them. It’s just a box, Mackland.” 

Mac stared at the box, trying to understand. “What?” He gasped. The realization that the object that had kept him sane was nothing more than a piece of plastic hit him hard. “Do you know what I could have done?” Mac threw the box down and screamed at the woman who’d lied to him. The dog who’d been sitting next to his master suddenly started to growl at him. 

“Atticus, down!” Jim ordered the dog before continuing, “You did not do anything, Mackland.” Murphy chided. “You should thank Missouri; she has taught you a very important lesson.” 

“Thank her?!” Mac retorted, “I could’ve killed us!”

“But, you did not,” Jim repeated. Jim stared at the two dueling guests, currently glaring at each other across the living room. “I think that we should call it an evening. You’ve both had a very long journey and we’ll need to get up early to complete the chores before church. Missouri, you can stay in the guest room next to mine. You know the way, I believe.” He waited for the woman to nod before he continued, “Mackland, I’ll show you to your room.”

Mac waited until after Missouri had made her way up the stairs and heard the slam of the bedroom door before he struggled up off the couch. The adrenaline rush left him feeling a little shaky and he felt Jim’s hand steadying him. He looked at the older man and tried not to let what he felt for Missouri impact this new relationship. The man had been nothing but kind to him; offering his home, building a ramp, calming him, and now helping him to stand on his own two feet. 

“I don’t understand,” Mac mumbled under his breath, “I don’t understand any of this.” He wiped at his face, trying not to completely fall apart under the stress.

Jim gripped his arm a bit more tightly, then placed another hand against his back. “Perhaps, Dr. Ames, you are just being guided to your true path. God works in mysterious ways, you know.” It was said fondly as if he’d often repeated it.

“Right now,” Mac huffed, “You are the one who is being mysterious. You aren’t concerned with my being here? According to Missouri, I’m one of the most powerful psychics she’s ever met… and that I’m completely out of control. Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“No, of course not. For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love and self-discipline… I believe that is what Missouri was trying to teach you.”

Mac nodded and smiled tiredly, not comprehending any of the religious mumbo-jumbo Murphy was spouting. He hoped that this trip wouldn’t turn into a bible-camp; he needed REAL answers, tangible ones—not spiritual ones. 

“I think I’ll turn in now, Jim.” He took one last look at the black box; that small plastic box had held all of his hopes and dreams. With it, he could be normal; knowing that it had only been a hoax—it was more than he could endure in one night. 

Jim almost seemed to read his mind, suggesting that they make their way to the room. Mac was surprised, as they walked through the kitchen and into the dining area. Or at least, it had been a dining area at one point. There was a bed placed near the windows, a small end table with a lamp atop of it, and even an old-fashioned armoire. Jim patted his shoulder, “I’m sorry about the lack of privacy, but Missouri had mentioned that you were still having trouble walking; I thought this would be easier on you than the stairs. There is a small bathroom across the room, fresh towels in the cupboard above the sink. But, if you need anything else, please let me know.”

“Thank you.” Mac was humbled. 

“Sleep well. I’ll wake you in the morning…” Jim nodded and wished him a good night.

He nodded back and waited for Jim to make his way up the stairs. He flicked on the light next to his bed, then stared out the window for a while. The quiet was strange; it was never quiet in New York. Out here, he could hear the crickets, owls, and other creatures creating their music of the night. He walked around the room, examining the trinkets here and there. They were feminine; not the sort of things that a man would collect. He spotted a portrait of a wedding on the fireplace mantel. Jim was the groom in the photo, a young man in his twenties holding his bride in his arms with a wide smile. Mrs. Murphy was quite lovely, dressed in a lace gown. There was nothing but love in her eyes for the man who held her. The men were dressed in military uniforms, groom included.

There were other photos around the room of the couple at various times of the year. Holidays, birthdays, and other everyday special moments were forever frozen in time. He studied them, trying to figure out what kind of man Jim Murphy was. There was no way he could be for real; no one was ever that nice without a reason, experience taught him that much.

It took a few more hours of tossing and turning before he slipped off to the land of nod. Nightmares woke him a couple of hours later—and kept him up the rest of the night. He stared at the night sky and wondered what the future held for him.

He must’ve dozed off because he did not hear Jim Murphy walk into his ‘room’. “Mackland, it’s time to wake up now. We’ll be late for church…” 

Mac pried his eyes open and blinked rapidly when he saw what Jim was wearing. His mouth dropped open, “You’re a priest?” He felt like a fish out of water, mouth opening, and closing stupidly. Suddenly, the bible-camp did not seem so far off.

Jim gave him a knowing look, “I’m a pastor.” 

Mac sat up in bed, “I thought you were a soldier.”

“I was.” Jim did not elaborate. He held out a hand to Mac, a silver ring shining on his finger as he helped him up.

He’d stiffened overnight, making the attempts to coordinate his limbs difficult. Mac appreciated the help out of bed. He hadn’t even changed from the night before, the suit he wore now wrinkled and a bit smelly. Walking to the bathroom, Mac splashed water on his face and looked at himself through the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was starting to grow a beard. He did not even recognize himself. There was a package of razors on the counter; he assumed that it was for him along with a new toothbrush. He put the razor to use but left the mustache. Perhaps, it was time for a change in his appearance—as well as his attitude.

He spotted his suitcase in the corner of the room; Jim must’ve brought it in for him. He slipped out of his musty clothes and put on fresher ones. One of the sweaters that his father had packed for him had been a gift from Rebecca. 

It only took one thought for his control to break. The windows started cracking and the armoire shook with his power. Missouri ran in, as did Pastor Jim. “Mackland!” Missouri yelled, “Stop that right now!”

He threw the sweater down and clutched his head, feeling dizzy. Mac felt hands grab him as he started to fall. A voice by his ear told him to breathe and to focus—he had the power to stop this. Soon, Mac believed them, and the thundering in his mind stopped; the world was righted. A cup of water was placed in his trembling hand, but he managed to take a couple of small sips before the water sloshed out. 

“You notice a trend yet, Ames?” Missouri shook her head at him. “Always that woman! Can’t you just get over it, already?”

“Missouri,” Jim warned, “Why don’t you finish getting ready? We can meet you in the car…” 

Jim waited a while before speaking. “You must’ve loved her with all of your heart to be affected this deeply.” 

“I did… or at least, I thought I did. And, I am trying to get over this, as Missouri suggests.”

“It will take time…” Jim said honestly, “You will never forget her; In a way, she’ll always be a part of you. You’ll forgive her, one day…” There was a pregnant pause. “Well, if you can, we need to hit the road.”

Mac pulled away from the hand trying to lift him to his feet. “No, I don’t think I should go… Not after—“ 

“Perhaps, the church will bring you some peace,” Jim suggested.

“No. I don’t want to be around anyone right now.” Mac argued; fear kept him glued in place.

“Mackland,” the pastor began softly, “Do you plan on isolating yourself for the rest of your life? Yes, you lost control—but, what you seem to have forgotten is that you stopped it. Your abilities are within your command; when you believed the black box was an Elemental Trap, there were no flare-ups. Your powers had been contained; it was only after you discovered that it was a ruse that you lost control. If you think about it, you’ll soon realize—it’s all in your mind.” 

Yes, it was logical to assume that Jim was correct, but knowing it and believing it was two different stories. “I understand, but I think I’ll just stay here for now. I need to think things through.”

Jim nodded, “I’m here, you know. If you need to talk.” With that, Jim made his way to the car. A minute later, Mac heard the car driving on the gravel road away from the house. 

The dog, who he’d learned from the collar was named Atticus Finch trotted over to him and lay his head on his lap. As the only person left in the house, Mac assumed the pup wanted attention. He and the dog had gotten off to a bad start—hell, he’d gotten off to a bad start with all of them and desperately needed a ‘reset’ button. He started rubbing the dog behind the ears and Atticus’s tail started swinging happily.

Mac smiled. It was rare since the accident that anyone was happy around him—even if it was a dog. His thoughts swirled, jumping from one thing to another randomly. His career, his father, Rebecca, and now this Brotherhood… he had no idea where he fit in or what he was capable of now.

He’d destroyed a room in his rage—could he do more damage? What were his limits? There were just too many questions and not enough answers. And now, he was here—in a farmhouse in a rinky-dink town. 

In attempts to quench his current mental frenzy, Mac allowed his curiosity to take over. He started exploring his temporary home, studying each room as he roamed. Mrs. Murphy’s touches were everywhere. He could only assume the woman was out of town; perhaps Jim worried about her safety while Mac was in the house. 

The stairs were too much for him to handle at this point, and he did not want to end up falling on his ass. As he entered the living area, he found a library full of books and decided to explore the texts. For a religious man, Jim Murphy’s library contained some odd choices. Books on the occult were mixed in with the Encyclopedia Britannica. The man owned the full set of Jane Austen novels. The Art of War and other military-type philosophies intermingled with fairy tales and urban legends. He picked one up and was shocked to see a pentagram on it.

What kind of people was he working with? Devil worshippers used pentagrams! But Jim was a pastor… and a seemingly good man. He put the book down, eyebrows wrinkling in confusion. Mac made his way back to the couch, Atticus loyally following him—and even steadied his legs when he felt shaky. He petted the dog again. He was glad the animal seemed to understand; he sure couldn’t.

He was so exhausted—everything made him tired. He used to spend the majority of the time at the hospital sleeping on and off. There really wasn’t much else to do. He’d gotten up not even an hour before, and now, Mac needed a nap. He grabbed a crocheted blanket off the back of the couch and had planned on lying down for a while.

What had ended up happening was not anything he had ever imagined.

Images started flashing through his mind—memories of a life that did not belong to him. He saw a young woman patiently crocheting, her young husband kissing her neck as she laughed. Mac saw her waving, tears streaming down her face as her lover left for war. He felt the utter joy she felt upon his return—and then, in quick succession, saw her death. He even knew where she was buried! ‘My beloved Emma’ her gravestone read. He saw the tears shed on the throw by the pastor for the love of his life.

Mac threw off the blanket, gasping for air. His stomach turned; the taste in his mouth becoming acidic and he was unable to stop himself from vomiting. He had a hand pressed against his temple tightly, his heart pounding in chest, throat, and head. As a doctor, Mac knew he was heading towards a panic attack and tried to get a handle on it.

“What the fuck?” He swore aloud. “What is happening to me?” He screamed it to the world, so loud the dog got frightened and backed away from him. The dog whimpered as if he had done something wrong to disrupt a guest of his master’s house.

Here alone in the house, he could cry, and no one would judge him—ask if he was alright or some other nonsense. And so, he did—he cried out his frustrations, doubts, and fears for the last time. He made a pact with himself; Rebecca would become just a memory. Her betrayal would only serve to make him stronger. Mac promised himself that he would control his emotions and his newfound abilities; no matter how foreign they were to him.

Getting up off the couch took a bit of maneuvering, but he was able to make the journey to the kitchen. He looked under the sink and was astonished by the sheer amount of cleaning products the pastor kept. Grabbing a familiar looking bottle and a cloth, he made his way back to the living area to clean up his mess. 

“No!” Mackland screamed!

He gulped to keep himself from making another mess as he spotted the dog licking up his vomit. “That’s disgusting.” Pushing Atticus Finch out of the way, Mac sprayed the area with a cleanser and quickly wiped away any sign of human vomit and dog saliva. He had to laugh at himself—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d cleaned anything himself, instead of just calling a servant.

He looked around the simple home, realizing that the life he’d had may have been a rich one, but it wasn’t a fulfilling one. It was now, at his lowest, that things had become so clear. All of his sins—lie out in the open. He’d been selfish—Mac would’ve never opened his home to a stranger. He’d thought of Edward and his family visiting him at the hospital. If their roles had been reversed, Mac would’ve just replaced him, never considering him ‘family’. He had no loyalty to anyone, not even his father; He’d denied Cullen’s right as a father to worry about his son’s ill decisions. And Rebecca—his Achilles heel. The woman had robbed him of his logic—poisoning him with her greed, materialism, and vanity.

Mac did not know much of Christianity, but even he knew the seven deadly sins. All of them had visited him in some way, dictating his every move until he couldn’t recognize the man he’d become. 

Time had lost all meaning, as he was deep in thought. He did not even notice the front door opening and Pastor Jim coming home from the church until the man knelt beside him. 

A gentle hand was placed against his neck, “Are you alright? Did you fall?”

“No, I did not fall…” His voice trailed off and he smiled, “You know, Jim—I think I’ll be alright now.”

Jim ducked his head down to meet Mac’s eyes. “Well, that’s what I’ve been saying all along!” The kind man laughed lightly.

Mac laughed with him, a sense of peace filling what was once an empty soul. “Where’s Missouri? I need to apologize to her. I treated her horribly. You were right; she was just trying to teach me a lesson. One that I need to thank her for…”

Murphy stood up, his body flexing like a gymnast—smooth and agile. Jim held out a hand to him and pulled Mac up onto his feet. “She’s left, Mackland. She was being mysterious, saying something along the lines of you learning the most important lessons on your own. I don’t believe she was upset—but, perhaps you could send her a bouquet of roses or something of the like.”

He pictured the volatile woman and shuddered; “I think that that is a wonderful idea. A dozen roses, shipped right to her door.” Mac arched an eyebrow as a thought occurred to him, “If she’s left, who’s going to help me with this psychic stuff?”

Jim patted his shoulder, “You’re an intelligent man, Dr. Ames. I have the resources that you need to learn about this ‘psychic stuff’, but most of it—it’s practice.”

Mac started, “You’re saying you want me to use my abilities?” 

“There’s no reason to deny what and who you are. It’s a treasure, one of God’s gifts to you.” Jim ignored the head shaking in front of him. “Embrace it, my friend.”

A part of the doctor wanted to continue his denial, but the rational part of his mind took told—analyzing the pastor’s meaning. The man was right—there was nothing to be gained by pretending that he was ‘normal’ anymore. Mackland had put himself through a grueling medical school program and graduated with honors; it had been one of the most challenging goals in his life. This would be a cakewalk in comparison.


	12. Chapter 12

Days became weeks at the old farmhouse, without end. The pastor said nothing nor indicated any sign that he wanted his guest to leave. For once in his life, Mackland felt welcomed and slowly opened up to the older man in a way he never would’ve dreamt possible; especially since they’d only known each other a short time.

With the pastor’s tutelage and his contacts, Mackland soon felt comfortable enough with his abilities to leave the house. He began taking long walks around the lake, then once he was strong enough to walk more than a few minutes at a time, he walked through town.

It did not take long for him to develop a daily routine with the pastor. Mac started working on his physical therapy during Jim’s morning chores while listening to classical music. Try as he might, Mac couldn’t force himself to scoop up horse manure or other farm necessities. In an attempt to be a gracious guest, he followed the older man to the barn one time to assist. It only took stepping into a smelly pile of poop for him to quickly run out and take an hour-long shower. He did not need to beg off the chores—every time Mac went out to the barn, Jim would start laughing at the prim and proper doctor, waving him away. 

Mackland had taken to practicing his psychic powers outside by the lake. It was far enough away from any structures to cause any damage. Unfortunately, during this ‘training’ period, many a tree suffered in his attempts to gain control. Soon, he felt stronger than he had ever felt before. He was able to move small objects from one place to another—larger objects if he focused very hard. The ‘visions’ for lack of a better word were harder to control. They manifested only when he touched certain objects—the research he’d found called the phenomenon psychometry or psychoscopy. The visions were intense, frightening to the core. It was hard to understand exactly what he was seeing; sometimes, it was the past—more often of things yet to come.

The first time –terror wasn’t a strong enough word for the emotion he felt during and afterward. The vision was quick, unexpected; the small-town grocery store was managed by a gray-haired old man who’d felt the need to ask him twenty questions every time he stopped in. For a while, Mac tried to avoid causing any rumors—keeping quiet, yet polite when asked about his limping and why he was staying with the pastor when it was obvious from his gold watch he could afford a place of his own.

A young woman carrying a baby and juggling a couple of bags walked towards them, shaking her head at the old man with a fond look of exasperation. She wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings, Mac gathered, and almost tripped over a small case of soda pop near the register. Gasping, her hands flew to steady her child and dropped everything else to the ground.

Mackland did not hesitate to slowly bend down to pick up her fallen bag; the baby’s teddy bear had been tossed out and as soon as his fingers touched the object—his mind was flung into the unknown. Flashes of water splashing, a child crying out unheard, beer bottles crashing, and screams overwhelmed him. He did not realize that he’d fallen until the vision cleared and everyone who’d been in the small shop was now kneeled in front of him staring in fear.

“Mister, should I call an ambulance? Are you alright?” The young woman asked, in a panic.

“No.” Mac quickly reassured them all, as he struggled to his feet. The old man had come out behind the counter to help him. His mind still felt a daze—not understanding what he’d just seen. The baby now sobbing in his mother’s arms was in danger. 

An urgency rose through his gut, making him lose his sense of decorum. He gripped the woman tightly, pulling her towards him a rougher than he’d planned, “Miss, don’t leave the baby alone with your husband.”

The woman stared at him fearfully, her arms hugging her son a bit more closely to her chest. “Wha—what do you mean?” 

“Your husband drinks to excess frequently.” He stated it as a fact—there was no question in his mind that the man was an alcoholic. “It’s dangerous to leave a man that passes out drunk alone with a baby. He might forget him in the bathtub one night.”

The old man gaped, mouth dropping open. “Now, mister, why would you go around saying something like that? That’s not right to judge a man.”

Mackland looked away, letting the mother slip from his grasp, desperately trying to hold on to his secret… “I’m not judging him; I am merely warning this lovely young woman that leaving her baby with a man that drinks will lead to tragedy.” 

She pursed her lips, backing away from him, but looked as if she was considering his words as truth. It was clear she loved her baby; perhaps more than she loved her drunk husband. She nodded, then left the shop—leaving her purchases behind.

The crowd that had gathered slowly dispersed, muttering to themselves. Mackland could hear the whispered comments and flinched at the thought that this incident would only spread the rumors about him.

He took the time to pick up the fallen items the young lady had forgotten in her panic to escape him. “Perhaps you could be so kind to deliver these to the young lady. I’ll gladly pay.” The old man quickly agreed, charging him for the extra items and packaging them for delivery.

Before he left, the old man had one more question. “You aren’t some kind of freak, are you?”

The word made Mac freeze; even the blood in his veins went cold. He couldn’t formulate a response for a minute and stood there staring at everything but the man who was staring at him like he was a piece of shit on his shoe. “No, I’m not. I’m a doctor." He said it with pride; he’d never cared what others thought of him before—and he wasn’t going to start now.

He walked out with his head held high.


	13. Chapter 13

Afterward, he’d realized that he’d underestimated the rumor mill of the small town. By the end of the day, Mac had been told that every man, woman, and child within 5 miles had heard about his ‘freak accident’ at the grocery store. The current rumor was that he’d threatened to kill Mrs. Austin’s husband because he was a drunk and run away with her to raise her child together.

Pastor Jim just laughed as he shared the current rendition of the story, adding flowery comments made by a few of his parishioners. One of them, Jim shared, had wanted to meet him; the woman thought him gallant to save a damsel in distress but was afraid that “she’d turn to sin” and asked the Pastor’s advice. Mac was thankful that the Pastor persuaded the woman to leave him be.

They were enjoying a nice supper when there was a knock on the door. Jim got up from the table to answer the door, mumbling about the late hour for a visitor. Mac stood up, his senses tingling… something was wrong. 

Mac watched as Jim opened the door, surprised to see the New Haven sheriff, looking frantic. “Sheriff, are you alright? Is something wrong?” Jim asked the officer. 

“Pastor, we’ve got a bit of a situation—I’m putting together a search party for a missing ten-year-old boy. I was hoping that you could sit with the family and counsel them. The father’s a bit angry, thinks the boy just ran away but the mother is inconsolable. She off thinking the worst.”

Jim was quick to assure the man that he would help. “What do you think happened?”

Mac came over to the door, not bothering to pretend that he wasn’t eavesdropping. The Sheriff gave him a sideways gaze, before continuing, “Pastor, I’m not sure – but I got reports that the boy was being bullied as he’d had some bruising the last few weeks. Could be that he ran away or could be that he’s got himself beat up in an alley somewhere and did not make it home yet. We’re going to search for him.”

It had been months since he practiced and he did not think he was ready to perform surgery just yet, but the skills for basic first aid were ingrained. He could manage a suture or two if required; his hands were steady enough for that. “Perhaps I could come with you, I’m a doctor. I could assist if the boy needed medical care.”

The Sherriff tipped his hat, “Thank you. Doctor?” 

“Dr. Ames, but you can call me Mac.” Mac went into the armoire of his ‘bedroom’ across the kitchen where he’d stored his belongings, pulling out a genuine black leather satchel bag that his father had purchased him to store toiletries during his trip. It was quite large and had the capacity to store much more than a toothbrush and shaving kit. If anything, it looked like a vintage doctor’s bag. He did not have many supplies with him – only essentials in the event of a fall: ace bandages, band-aids, alcohol, gauze, and tape. Mac shoved them all in the bag and grabbed his cane.

The Pastor was kind enough to take the bag from his hands, while he shook hands cordially with the Sheriff. “I’m Sheriff Aaron Hoffman. It’s nice to meet you.” Hoffman pointed at the cane, “Doc, I mean you no disrespect, but you’re going slow us down during the search. I’m going to recommend you stay with the Pastor with the family. Maybe you could help Mrs. Hernandez to calm down or something. Once we find the kid, we’ll bring him home if he isn’t hurt too badly to need a hospital.”

They walked out of the warm home and out to the driveway, where Pastor Jim directed Mackland to the side of the house where his van was parked. “I know the Hernandez family and their address,” Jim called out. “There’s no need to waste time with us. I’ll pray that you and your team can find young Luiz quickly.”

With that, the Sheriff got in his car, turned on the sirens, and drove away from the farm. Mackland huffed and was able to step up into the van with Jim’s assistance. Once the passenger door was closed, Jim went around to the driver’s side and started the vehicle. Before heading out, Jim smiled at his new friend, “That was very kind of you to offer to assist.”

Mac rubbed at his mustache, “I think I spoke too soon, I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to help. The Sheriff was right, I’m slower than I used to be.” The doctor wasn’t used to feeling doubt in his abilities. He was getting better, but there were times where if he pushed too hard, his knees would go out from under him. The positive to all his occupational therapy and ball-squeezing was that his hands were strengthening, fine-motor skills returning as he practiced. He laughed to himself, it wasn’t too long ago that his goal was to go to the bathroom on his own steam, and now, his goal was to pass the hospital’s surgical tests so that he could return to his practice.

Looking at the man sitting beside him, Mac was grateful for his help. Jim managed to think of ways to improve without being condescending. An example of that was when Jim asked him for help in creating a gift for a parishioner who was having her first baby at 19-years-old. Jim told him that his wife used to gift a baby blanket for each new baby in their church. After her passing, Jim took up the mantle in creating a hand-crafted blanket. Mac was shocked when the pastor handed him a hook and a basket of yarn, asking him to help him crotchet. The man was endlessly patient, teaching him simple patterns. Mac had been – well, an ass. He did not want to play with yarn. It was a struggle, when his hands would get tired and his design failed, the Pastor would simply pull the string, effectively erasing his work, then gently remark that he should start over. The frustration was eating at him, with the Pastor pressing him to finish the job using the time-aged strategy used by grandmothers everywhere of guilt-tripping him into it. Jim showed him photos of the young lady, telling him that she would be so grateful for the gift and to imagine a small baby being warm at night. When that stopped working, the pastor pulled out his last punch asking if he’d quit in the middle of a surgery and let a patient bleed out. The words stunned the doctor, hitting him where he was most sensitive. From that point on, he’d stopped complaining about finishing the blanket. It had taken nearly a month to complete a 40” x 60” blanket to the pastor’s exacting standards. It had also rehabilitated his hands to where he could thread a needle without shaking, practicing his sutures on a chicken breast until they were perfect.

Putting the car into drive, they went off to begin their mission of care. Jim mentioned off-handed, “perhaps my friend, you’ll be more help than you think.”


	14. Chapter 14

Luiz Hernandez was official considered a missing person after the 48th consecutive hour and the FBI was called in since the boy was of ‘tender years’, which meant under the age of twelve. Mac was swept away by the whirlwind of the process even though he was a bystander.

To an outsider, it seemed like controlled chaos. It overwhelmed him in a way he hadn’t felt in years. He dropped by the Hernandez home often with the pastor. Jim would pray with the religious family, while Mac wandered. The longer it took to find the boy, according to the police officers and agents, the more likely that the boy would not be found.

He observed the officers checking food supplies, clothing, asked for lists of friends, and most likely places that the boy spent time in. The officers interviewed his school friends, teachers, and neighbors. No one had any knowledge of where Luiz could be.

During one of his walks around the house, he stopped by the youngest’s room. The little girl was four and completely terrified at what was happening. She would cry for her brother and mother. Her mother had stopped functioning in her fear. The pastor helped hold her together, while the father got drunk and angry. He was being interrogated as a suspect in his son’s disappearance, further agitating him. Julia was left to her devices, mostly left in her bedroom unless she was hungry. When she’d get sad, she’d sit by her mother and snuggle until she fell asleep.

Mac tried to help, feeling like a voyeur, so he’d made the child a sandwich and brought her snacks. Julia was sweet, and once she felt comfortable with the stranger in her house, she invited him to play with her dolls. She had a dark-haired ‘princess’ doll that resembled her and passed the prince over to Mac, warning him to be careful because when Luiz came home, her brother would play the prince.

After agreeing to her terms with a cordial nod and smile, Mac took the doll. As soon as his fingertips touched the doll, flashes of memories flooded his mind. The two siblings were close, Luiz loved his little sister and played with her often. The love was returned, to Julia, Luiz was her hero. It was quick, lasted only a few seconds, and left Mac with the feeling that Luiz was still alive somewhere. Blinking, he was back in the room with Julia, who was staring at him with her head tilted.

“Are you okay, Dr. Mac?” Julia asked. “Do you want to play with the princess instead?” She held out her treasured doll to him.

Smiling, Mac shook his head, “No, but thank you for offering. That was very sweet of you, but I think a princess should play with a princess.” He took in a deep breath, trying to reorient himself, but couldn’t. There was a prickling in the back of his mind, like a word on the tip of your tongue, needing to get out. It was different than the telekinetic push that occurred when he lost control. Gently, he handed the prince doll back to Julia excusing himself and promising that he’d return to play with her at a later time.

Stepping out of the pink room, he paused in the hall to control his breathing. Once he felt steady, Mac went into the living area and motioned for his friend to join him on the porch where they could have privacy.

Once they were alone, Jim lay his hand against his shoulder, eyes full of concern. “Are you alright, Mackland? You look peaked.”

“Jim, I think I need to take a break. Would it be alright if I borrowed the van to take a drive?” Mac asked his friend as he rubbed his forehead, pained.

The doctor gripped his forearm with the other hand, supporting him, “Mackland, you don’t look well. I don’t feel comfortable allowing you to drive. However, I’d be happy to drop you off at the farm if you would like to rest there.”

“All right,” Mac breathed. His senses were foggy, swirling as if he were on the edge of fainting.

Jim called out that he and Mac would come back later into the house before guiding, practically carrying him into the van. “Should I take you to the hospital?”

“no,” Mac whispered, “drive, please.” 

His friend did as he was bit, but Mac could tell that he was still worried by the way that he would reach his hand out to prod him to make sure he was still conscious.

Suddenly, there was a buzzing-like sensation that was getting stronger. Mac looked out the window as they drove past St. Catherine’s Church, then the Academy, and funeral home off Center Street. The town was small. Less than a thousand lived there, with little diversity. The fact that the Hernandez family settled in the town caused a stir. From their time in the Hernandez home, he overheard Mrs. Hernandez blaming her husband for moving them from their Mexican-majority neighborhood. It was one of the reasons the boy was bullied; he did not fit in among his peers. His clothing, accent, color, and perspectives were different while he was among an immature group that did not appreciate diversity. Mac thought back to his childhood, it was tough enough to be the rich kid among the other rich kids. Children were cruel.

Soon, they reached the turn off towards the farmhouse. “Keep driving, Jim,” Mac asked, brow creased in concentration. “Just – keep driving down this road.”

Much to Mac’s relief, the Pastor did not ask any questions and drove past his street. Soon they were driving towards the woods by New Hope Road. They passed the markers for Route 247 and the buzzing, for lack of a better term, decreased.

“Wait, Jim, go back!” Mac cried, his head throbbing now.

Jim nodded, putting the car in reverse and navigating the turn. “Mackland, what are you feeling?”

Mac swallowed hard, his mouth dry making it hard, “I think Luiz is here, Jim. He’s here.” They drove a short distance before Mac cried out, “Wait! Go down that dirt road. Just slow down.”

Jim followed his commands, “I think we should call the FBI.”

“If I’m wrong,” Mac murmured, “this isn’t a science.”

“We can’t go in unarmed, Mackland.” Jim pulled the car towards the edge of the dirt road, then put the vehicle in park.

“Unarmed?” The doctor queried, “what are you expecting, Jim?”

Mac watched as Jim crawled inside the van. After lifting the floor mats, the Pastor revealed the hatch on the floorboard revealing a cache of guns, crosses, knives, flashlights, and holy water. Jim handed him a knife, cross, flashlight and told him to pocket the holy water, in case. He stuffed a small bag with supplies, then climbed out of the van.

Following behind him, Mac asked, “Are you expecting to christen the boy when you find him?” He held up the bottle of holy water, “and, what’s this for?” 

Jim evaded answering the question, “I promise, I’ll explain once we’ve found Luiz. But for now, stay behind me.” He inched forward, one hand holding a flashlight and the other a gun. The sun was starting to set and it was getting dark.

The men rounded the dirt path and saw a white structure with two storm cellar hatches beside them. One of the hatches had a blue backpack beside it. It matched the description given by Mrs. Hernandez. The hatch was effectively locked by a steel rod, easily removed in case of an emergency by pulling it out of the eye. However, there was no way to remove the rod from the inside – a one-way function designed to prevent animals from entering when not in use.

Mac moved to open the hatch but was stopped by a strong hand on his elbow. “Wait, Mackland,” Jim whispered before pulling out a device from his bag and waving it over the hatch. It looked like a modified radiation detector. The device clicked once, then Jim smiled and told him that it was clear.

Jim had his gun pointed at the hatch, just in case, but nodded to Mackland to open it. His friend’s strange behavior was soon forgotten as the missing ten-year-old was found at the bottom of the storm shelter.

“Luiz? Can you hear me? I’m a doctor. My name is Mac.” Mac called out into the dark hole. He heard a small moan in response, relief filling his body and clearing his pounding head.

“Let’s see if we can pull him out. Mackland, stay there. You can pull from the top.” Jim used the ladder to make his way down to the small 4-person shelter. Mac heard the pastor softly comforting the ten-year-old for a few minutes. Then there was a shuffling, sounds of heavy footsteps. Mac used the flashlight to help light the dark space below and saw Jim carrying the child towards the ladder.

Luiz grabbed hold of the rungs and pulled himself up shakily. Jim was beneath him, helping him step up and preventing a fall. Mackland worried, the ten-year-old had gone at least 50 hours without food and water by his estimate. The child would need to be taken to the hospital immediately for fluids and bloodwork to check his electrolyte levels. But he was alive and that was something to be thankful for.

Once Luiz was within reach, Mac pulled him from the hatch and lay him on the ground next to him. “Hello, Luiz. I’m Dr. Ames. You can call me Mac. Pastor Jim and I are here to help you.” He covered the boy with his jacket, ignoring the cold. “Can you tell me if you’re hurt anywhere?”

The boy did not speak but put his hand on his chest and towards his belly. “Do you mind if I take a look?” Mac softly asked, not wanting to further spook the child. As soon as Luiz nodded his consent, Mac gently lifted his shirt to find bruises littering across his chest and abdomen. The pattern of the bruising was indicative of blunt force trauma, most likely fists. The doctor pressed along his organs, checking for internal bleeding or guarding wincing as the boy cried out and curled in on himself.

Jim crawled out of the shelter and kneeled by their side. “Mackland, how’s he doing?”

With a grim look, Mac stated simply, “Let’s get this young man to a hospital. I’d prefer an ambulance, but time is of the essence – Jim, can you bring the van any closer so we can carry him?”

Jumping up from the ground, the pastor ran towards the van in a heartbeat. While Jim was getting the vehicle, Mac focused on Luiz speaking to him softly. “You’re going to be alright Luiz. Your mother and father have been looking for you. They’re going to be so happy to see you.”

Luiz looked up, tears glistening in his eyes. “Momma?” It was broken, dry, and rough, but no less than a cry of a child wanting his mother.

Rubbing the boy’s back comfortingly, Mac smiled. “You’ll see her very soon. Pastor Jim and I are going to get you to a hospital. We’ll have the nurses call her as soon as we get there.”

It did not take long to hear the sounds of the van approaching, the stones under the tires unmistakable. Jim pulled up as closely as safety would allow, then jumped out, leaving the van running to help carry Luiz inside. The pastor did most of the work, while Mac trailed behind, limping slightly from kneeling on the stones. Jim gave him a look of concern that Mac waved away. Mac got in the back of the van, pulling out one of the blankets that were stored in a donation bag on the floorboards to lay Luiz on, then pulled another blanket over him to bring up his body temperature slowly. 

Jim moved quickly towards the driver’s seat and sped towards the nearest hospital. Mac sat on the floor by Luiz’s head, a hand on his shoulder during the twenty-five-minute drive to Elizabethtown. The van was well stocked for emergencies: water, blankets, weapons, and foodstuffs were boxed up yet easily accessible, making the doctor wonder about his new friend, yet felt thankful for the man’s preparedness. Mac pulled out a water jug, slowly dabbing the boy’s lips with moisture with a clean handkerchief. It was best to avoid food or drink until the emergency room doctors cleared the ten-year-old. There was a chance that Luiz would be whisked away to surgery upon their arrival and did not want to risk aspiration if he were to be intubated.

The doctor was used to a medical center practically on every corner in NYC, the long drive to reach the emergency room annoyed him. It was another reason to avoid small towns in his eyes – he would always be a city boy.

Finally, they reached the bright red lights of the ER. Mac eased himself up, then quickly twisted the lever to open the sliding doors of the van calling out for help. Soon, they were surrounded by nurses and ER staff. Mac shifted out of the way while Luiz was strapped onto a backboard and lifted towards the waiting gurney. In what felt like seconds later, the boy was safely inside. A guard at the door came up to the driver’s side window and pointed towards a parking area, telling them they needed to move to make room for an approaching ambulance. Jim spoke to him, Mac not really listening as he shut the door to the van, then slid to the floorboards. The adrenaline coursed through Mac’s body, making him feel shaky and alive in a way that he hadn’t felt since he was a teen.

Jim pulled into an open spot in the parking area, then shut the engine. For a while, they did not speak nor move. The pastor was the first to shift, moving towards the back of the van to sit across from his friend. “Are you alright, Mackland?”

“I’m alright. Just need a minute. You might have to help me up, I forgot my cane,” Mac breathed. “How are you doing, Jim?”

“I think I’m fairing a bit better than you, my friend,” the pastor said with a smile.

Arching an eyebrow, Mac questioned, “Why is that, Jim? You seem to be handling all of this with a grain of salt.”

Jim patted Mac’s hand, then moved to slide open the van door. “I promise to tell you when we get back home. Now, let’s check on Luiz. You and I have several phone calls that we will need to make. What would you like me to tell the officers? I’ll align my story with yours.”

“Story?” Mac queried.

Jim was patient, he got out of the van and held out a hand for his friend. “I could tell them that you were unwell and I had planned to drive you to the hospital – however, we spotted a blue backpack on the side of the road and thought to stop if you’d rather avoid the spectacle.”

Mac leaned on his friend, gritting his teeth at the shooting pain in his back. Jim had helped him through a few times where he’d overestimated his stamina, practically carrying him back to the farmhouse – never once complaining or chastising him for overdoing it. “Jim, I would have thought you to be the pinnacle of integrity. I’m quite shocked that you’d encourage me to lie to law enforcement.”

“Are you intending to tell the police and FBI the truth of how you found Luiz?” Jim asked for clarification.

Mac limped towards the ER with his friend, “Yes, honesty is the best policy. I have nothing to hide.”

“You do understand that they will record your statement. This is a small town as you know, if your psychic abilities are documented, there’s no chance that it won’t become publicized,” Jim stressed.

“Surprisingly, I think that I would be alright with that.” Mac said confidently, “It won’t bode well to try and hide my abilities, as my goal is to learn more about them. I want to meet others with abilities similar to my own; ultimately, do some research on the paranormal. If my name is out there, it might make facilitating the meetings easier in the future. There’s an entire world that’s unknown to me and I don’t like being ignorant, Jim.”

Jim smiled, “I would be happy to make the first introduction for you, my friend. But, for now, let’s focus on Luiz.”

Mac stumbled to the waiting room, where he gladly took a seat while Jim gave both the nurse and police officer assigned to the ER the information about Luiz.

It did not take but another 30 minutes or so for the Hernandez family to practically fly through the ER doors and harangue the front desk for an update on their son. Julia was trailing behind her parents but spotted Mac in the waiting room. The little girl gave him a big smile when he waved his hello. Jim was quick to offer to watch the four-year-old while the parents were whisked away to see their son.

Jim led Julia by the hand to where Mac was sitting. Somehow, Julia seemed to know that he’d found her brother. She sat in his lap, holding out the prince doll that she generously allowed him to play with earlier that afternoon. Mac could barely believe the turn of events, one moment he was playing dolls, and the next he had found a missing child. “Thank you, Dr. Mac. You found my brother.” Julia joyfully expressed, “I think you’re a magic prince and that you should keep him. A prince should play with a prince.” She adapted his earlier words and Mac could not find it in himself to deny her gift.

“Thank you, Julia, I’m going to treasure this always.” He took hold of the dark-haired male doll, dressed in removable regalia.

From the chair next to him, Jim was smiling wide enough to where his eyes were wrinkled in laugh lines. Mac thought he could see pride sparkling in them.


	15. Chapter 15

Sitting in a cold interrogation room of an Elizabethtown police station was not where Mackland anticipated spending his evening after rescuing a child. It was frustrating, as they had left him to ‘stew’ for the last two hours in a white-walled room with what he imagined was a two-way mirror on one wall. There was a metal bar-enclosed wall clock that clicked so loudly that he was tempted to use his gifts to crush it if only to make it stop.

The police officers and FBI agents, upon receiving a call from Pastor James Murphy had descended on the hospital in force. The first thing they had done was to separate them. Jim had gone without a complaint, while Mac was left with two agents glaring at him in the middle of the hospital waiting room. They asked him to come with them. Ashamedly, he had to tell them that he needed a wheelchair, unable to stand after the hectic day. He must have twisted his back while pulling up Luiz, unused to the extra weight while he was in recovery.

The agents stoically asked a nurse for a wheelchair, then radioed for a transport van to meet them at the hospital for a ride. Soon, the wheelchair was brought over. Blanching, Mac shifted into the chair with Agent Dina Thomas’s helping hand. Her partner, Agent Reed Ward scoffed, muttering under his breath that he was ‘playing it up’. They did not bother to wait until the van arrived, pushing the wheelchair into an unused cubicle to start their questioning.

Agent Ward started, “Dr. Ames, could you explain exactly how you managed to find Luiz Hernandez?”

Mac sat back in the wheelchair, his head throbbing. He tried to relax his shoulders, lessen the tension, but the stress of being interrogated counteracted his attempts. “I was in a motor vehicle accident about ten months ago. I had been in a coma for three months. After relearning verbal, visual, gross, and fine motor skills due to brain damage, we discovered that I gained a new talent in psychometry, among other abilities. When I touch an object that is deeply cared for, I get visions of the person to whom it belonged. Pastor James Murphy and I were on a mission of mercy when we visited the Hernandez family. You can question Sheriff Aaron Hoffman, who had asked the pastor to counsel the family in their time of need. Since I am a doctor, I volunteered to help. I got a spike – as if it were a tracking beacon in my mind of where Luiz was after I touched a doll that his sister Julia handed me. Jim had wanted to call the police, but since it was just a feeling – not a sure thing, I did not want to pull them off their search for a possible false positive. The closer we got to the storm shelter, the stronger the feeling. We spotted his backpack near the hatch – and I believe you have the details of our arrival from the hospital staff.”

Mac knew from the look on the agent’s faces that they did not believe him. He repeated the story another three times to various law enforcement agents, officers, and lawyers once they had transported him to the police station. They wheeled him from one room to another, each one had fewer windows as it went on and the more forceful the questions became. One of the officers was inches away from his face, the halitosis combined with Mac’s headache nearly made him vomit. It was at that point where he had nearly contacted the family law firm and paid them to go on the defensive on his behalf. Instead of lawyers, he considered convincing the FBI that his abilities were real. It would open the door to interesting possibilities on both sides of the coin. Of the two FBI agents, the one Mac needed to convince was Ward.

After hours, threw him in an empty room where the damn fluorescent lights were burning his retinas. He decided that he had plenty of time to close his eyes. If they were going to leave him alone, well then, he was going to take a nap. Wrapping his arms around his waist, he slouched in the wheelchair and let his head fall back.

It did not take another fucking 30 seconds for an officer and agent to arrive in the room, as if they had been watching him, waiting until he was relaxed to enter. Mac imagined it might be some type of strategy they used to ‘crack the bad guys’, but it was upsetting to be treated with such disrespect.

“Dr. Ames, we wanted to thank you for your patience. Could we offer you some refreshment?” A female officer named Delacy asked politely.

Mac was gritting his teeth, but responded in kind, “No, thank you. I would like to make sure that I’ve adequately answered your questions before I leave. Was there anything else that you needed to know?”

Agent Thomas sat across from him, unsmiling and serious. “Would you be willing to take a polygraph, just to set all of our minds at ease?”

“Agent Thomas, before agreeing, I would like to set expectations. If I take the polygraph and it shows that I am telling the truth, what would be the next steps?” Mac wanted to be sure if he wasted another hour or two of his life that he would be cleared of suspicion for once and all.

As the woman spoke, Mackland reached out with his mind, the slightest brush to judge truthfulness. “If you pass the lie detector test, we’ll let you go home.” Mac rubbed the skin between his eyes, closing his eyes for a few seconds.

“Are you alright, Dr. Ames? You’ve gone pale.” Delacy asked in concern.

Prying his eyes open, the doctor told her that he would be alright. 

“So, you agree?”

“Agent Thomas, I’ll only agree if Agent Ward is in the room with us and ask questions. I would like him to also participate so that the test puts his mind at ease. Would that be acceptable?” Mac was hard in this request.

“Yes, we’ll agree to your terms. Thank you for your assistance in this matter. I’m sure I speak for both the PD and the FBI that we would like to close the book on you so that we can investigate other suspects in Luiz’s imprisonment.” Thomas iterated genially.


	16. Chapter 16

The doctor had never had a polygraph test before. Mackland was interested in the technology behind it, which was similar to an electrocardiograph. The device measuring his heart rate was slightly larger than a bulky suitcase, metallic with knobs. At the base were four markers that would draw on threaded paper.

There were three people other than him in the room. A polygraph specialist plus the two FBI agents as requested. As they were setting him up for the baseline test by asking him demographic data, the specialist (who did not bother to introduce himself) mentioned off handedly, “your heart rate is higher than normal at baseline. Do you have any heart conditions?”

Mac asked if he could see the tracing, thinking it was like an ECG, but once he examined it, he realized that it was not medical grade. The scientific part of his mind wanted to run a comparison the next time that he had the chance. “I have a bad headache and I suppose that I am irritated that I am not taken at my word. You have access to my public records. I was a neurosurgeon. Other than a speeding ticket, there are no marks against me. I shouldn’t have to jump through all of these hoops to be considered trustworthy.”

“Again, Dr. Ames, we thank you for your willingness to assist us.” Agent Thomas was quick to reassure. Mac imagined that none of them would like it if he stopped the test and walked out per his rights.

The specialist took control of the room, reciting a paragraph for legal reasons prior to starting the test. He was to answer only yes and no.   
“Have you ever abducted another person?”

“No.”

“Have you ever endangered a child?”

“No.”

“Have you ever molested a child?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been accused of assault?”

“No.”

“Are you a psychic?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Did you attack Luiz Hernandez?

“No.”

“Did you imprison Luiz Hernandez?”

“No.”

“Did you find Luiz Hernandez through criminal means?”

“No.”

“Did you find Luiz Hernandez using psychometry?”

“Yes.”

“Before this evening, had you ever met Luiz Hernandez?”

“No.”

“Is your intention to discredit the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”

“No.”

“Is it your intention to embarrass the Federal Bureau of Investigations?”

“No.”

“Thank you, this test is now completed.” The man spoke robotically, taking notes on the paper, then getting up to unhook Mac from the leads.

“How long will it take for you to read it and determine results?” Mac queried, tired.

“It shouldn’t take me too long, Dr. Ames. I will discuss the results with the agents, and they’ll report the results to you shortly.” The man seemed cordial after the test was completed, most likely because he knew that he was being truthful during the polygraph. “You can stay here. I’ll bring you some water.”

With that, the man motioned for the agents to follow him out. Mac scratched at the adhesive left behind, his body was aching and sore. His mind was exhausted and pained. Glancing at the clock, they had been at this for nearly six hours. He had performed a craniotomy and tumor removal in less time.

Water was indeed brought to him a minute later, the coolness refreshing after speaking for so very long without it. He pressed the glass to his forehead, enjoying the momentary relief it offered.

The two agents walked in, their body language open and relaxed. “Dr. Ames, you’ve passed the polygraph, but you already knew that. Thank you for your truthfulness tonight. We’ve also received a report that Luiz Hernandez has woken and provided the police officers the names of his assailants. It seems that the Sheriff was right. He was attacked by a group of his classmates.”

Mac was relieved that he was finally believed. “That’s great. I pray that Luiz gets justice for the crime committed against him. How’s he doing?”

Agent Thomas gave him a slight smile, “They say he’ll recover without any permanent damage. Thank you, Dr. Ames, for finding him. I’m sure the family will be forever grateful to you. We’ll help you out. You’re free to go. Your friend, Jim Murphy is in the waiting area.”

The two agents shook his hand. Agent Ward had a somewhat stunned expression on his face but offered his apologies before walking away. Mackland wheeled himself to waiting room, following the arrows along the walls.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, Mac was engulfed in a hug. Jim was crouching low to meet his eyes after releasing him, “Are you alright, Mackland?”

“Yes, thank you for asking Jim. I will say I am ready for bed now. Please forgive me if I’m not as talkative tonight.” Mac declared tiredly, rubbing his head.

Jim stepped back and waved over someone who had been sitting beside him. “I hope you won’t mind, Mackland, I had called for back-up since you were being held for longer than expected. This is my good friend, Dr. Griffin Porter.” Mackland lifted his head dazedly to meet the warm brown eyes of the dark-skinned man who was smiling at him. “Griffin, this is Dr. Mackland Ames. I think you’ll find that you have much in common.”

Mac shook the man’s hand, a ghost of a smile on his face. He certainly was not in the mood for company, though he was the guest in Jim’s home and Jim had the right to invite whomever he wished. “It’s nice to meet you,” Mac murmured, trying to sound upbeat.

Dr. Porter held his hand for a moment too long, so Mac pulled away. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Dr. Ames. Jim has told me so much about you.”

“Hopefully, all good.” Mac was itching to leave and prodded the two men as propriety allowed. “Do you need to speak to the officers or are we all free to leave now?”

Jim smiled knowingly, “We don’t need anything. Let me push the chair to the van. We’ve parked it in front of the station. Griffin and I will help you into the van.” Jim took hold of the handles behind him, so Mac let go of the wheel grips to allow him to push the chair towards the front door. Dr. Porter held the doors open and moved obstacles in their path until they were finally by the van.

The two men opened the doors. Mac dropped the brakes so that he could step up to his seat. His legs were trembling and he could barely keep from falling back into the seat. Griffin stepped up in front of him and gripped his shoulders. “Dr. Ames, I think this would be safer if Jim and I assisted you.”

Jim moved towards his back, while Porter stood in front of him, using patient positioning techniques to help him stand. Once he was standing, the two men lifted him as he stepped up the riser to the passenger seat. As soon as he was sitting, Griffin swung his legs to the floorboards and dropped the armrest. Jim had gotten into the driver seat and reached for the seatbelt catch that Griffin pulled over Mac’s chest and lap to press into the buckle. 

For a while, things were dim and faded. There was the sensation that he was in a moving vehicle. He could see the lights of the lampposts flickering as the van drove past, even with his eyes closed. The two men were talking softly, their tones friendly as if they had known each other for years. He did not listen in but took comfort in their whispers.

It did not take long in the night to get back to the farm, no traffic to slow them down. The pebbles in the driveway being crushed against the rubber tires of the van made it clear they were at the farmhouse from sound alone. He wanted so very much to get out and crawl into bed, but he could not gather the energy.

He felt hands pressing against his neck, taking his pulse. There were whispers in which he could only catch every other word. “Semiconscious, tachycardic, pain-response, possible migraine, stretcher”.

There was a sudden feeling of vertigo that made him cry out. Jim gentled him. “You’re alright, Mackland. We have you.” 

The world swirled in and out until he was lying on a soft mattress. He could feel his shoes being pulled off, hearing them thud to the ground. Something squeezed his forearm, but it only lasted for a few seconds, so it did not disrupt the sudden calm he felt. He felt hands in his hair, his head being cupped gently before the pain melted away. “Finally,” he thought, “now, I can sleep.”


	17. Chapter 17

After months of living in a hospital room, he became accustomed to being woken by a nurse checking his vitals. Most of the time, unless they spoke to him, he’d let them complete their tasks and fell back asleep as soon as they were done. This time, his eyes flew open as his senses not recognizing the footsteps, nor touch of fingers against his wrist. Jerking away, he sat up in bed then winced as his back protested the motion.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to frighten you, Dr. Ames” the deep melodic voice soothed.

Mackland quickly remembered where he was and recollected that the man sitting by his bed had been introduced to him. He was Jim’s friend. He rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes at the morning light. 

“Do you remember me from last night?” The young dark-skinned man smiled at him warmly. He was dressed professionally in tweed, giving him the look of a professor or librarian with a pyramidal-styled mustache to complete the look. His hair had an afro, neatly shaped around his chiseled face.

“Yes,” Mac assured, “You’re Jim’s friend. I remember that we were introduced but your name escapes me. And please, call me Mac.” He returned a half-smile.

“My name is Dr. Griffin Porter, Griffin please.” Griffin shifted back to allow Mac room to regain his equilibrium.

Mac slid out of bed, socked feet touching the hardwood of the oak-stained dining room floor. Grunting, he was able to get to his feet, struggling to straighten with shooting pain through his back. Porter extended his hand silently, a ray of sunshine reflecting the silver ring he wore as if it were a test. Mac was not in the mood for tests, taking the hand as was offered until he could stand. 

Jim had come in from the kitchen, wearing an off-white apron over his clerical clothing. “Mackland, it’s good to see you on your feet.” His friend went over to the armoire and unpacked Mac’s cane. Approaching, Jim handed him the cane, smiling. “You look like you might need this today along with a homecooked meal. How are you feeling?”

“A bit worse for wear, I’m afraid. Please excuse me,” Mac motioned towards the bathroom, shuffling inside and closing the door behind him. He emptied his bladder, washed his hands, then turned towards the tub. He wanted to take a shower, the dried sweat and dirt clung to his clothing and body however he wasn’t sure if he could step into the tub without assistance. In the privacy of the small room, Mac could admit that he smelled.

He turned on the faucet, letting the cold water run until it was a comfortably warm temperature. He wet the hand towel then lathered the cloth with a bar of soap. He was content with a sponge bath for the time being.

There was a knock on the bathroom door, Jim’s voice on the other side. “Mackland, I thought you might need a change of clothing. May I come in?”

“You can come in,” Mac called out. The door slowly swung open, Jim holding a small pile of clothes out to him.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to bend to pick them up off the floor if I put them outside the bathroom.” Jim pulled out a bottle from his pocket. “I also thought you might need a bit of relief today.”

Mac took the bottle of muscle relaxants, shook out a couple of pills, and then dry-swallowed them. “Thank you, Jim.” He laughed, “You might be the psychic today as you seem to be reading my mind.”

Laughing along, Jim shook his head, “I’m not a psychic, Mackland. Just unfortunate to have known so many men in pain that I can spot it even when they try to hide it. Between you and Griffin, I’m the odd man out.”

Jim was by the bathroom door, shutting the door behind him before Mac caught the reference. “Wait, are you saying Griffin is also a psychic?” The man chuckled a non-answer and left him to finish cleaning up.

The knowledge that another psychic, one that was kinder to him than Missouri Moseley, was at the farmhouse fueled his desire to speed things along in the bathroom so that he could get to know Dr. Porter. The fact that he failed to notice last night put into perspective how he faired after leaving the police station. Not well.

After changing, he struggled back up using the cane opening the door of the bathroom. Atticus Finch must have wandered inside, smelling the bacon aroma or even hearing the sizzling pan in the kitchen. He went over to the doctor, padding alongside him towards the kitchen as if he were spotting him or preventing a fall. The young dog was very smart and gentle, the kind that Mac had dreamt of as a child. He had begged his father for a puppy and was denied consistently. Once he had gotten his first apartment, the doctor realized it would be unkind to bring in an animal to wait long hours until he got home. Mostly, he used the place to sleep. The farmhouse was the first home that he ever wanted to spend time indoors. It was comfortable.

The doctor knew that his time at Jim’s farm was coming to an end. The small town of New Haven was quaint but lacked the resources that he required to build the life he envisioned. He needed to ascertain his standing. He had left the hospital without knowing the status of his finances; his father had taken care of him and Mac imagined it meant taking care of all his needs. Before the accident, he had been spending beyond his paychecks from the hospital and had started tapping into the family trust. Once he was physically ready, Dr. Ames knew that he could rebuild his career and repay his father.

In addition to money, he needed to rebuild his home. The cold sleek minimalist styles the interior designers had suggested to present a display of power and wealth would no longer meet his needs. He wanted to feel warm again, surround himself in true friendship and love. He wanted a family; he missed his father. He spoke to him frequently, Cullen checking on him weekly to make sure he was alright, but it was not the same as spending time with him. 

When he arrived in the kitchen, both Jim and Griffin were plating a variety of breakfast foods. Eggs, hash, bacon, toast, oatmeal, and pancakes. Jim noticed his hovering and waved him to sit at the table. It was when Jim’s ring glinted in the sun that he realized that the doctor who had woken him wore a matching ring. Mac sat at the table, his usual spot after a couple of months of sharing breakfasts and dinners. “Did you meet in college?” Mac did not know much regarding the Brotherhood outside of the threats Missouri alluded to, perhaps it was like the Skull and Bones where members joined during college years.

Jim motioned for Griffin to sit next to him and bring the last plate to the table. “No, Griffin and I met after I returned from the war. I had been working as an associate pastor to Father Solomon O’Shaughnessy. After I lost my wife, Emma, I felt lost, angry at God. Father Solomon tried to heal my heart and bring me back to God, but the rage took over. I started hunting under Father Solomon. He had been part of the Brotherhood; the Father’s specialty was performing exorcisms to banish demons from their vessels. He told me of the ancient order, trained me. Once I was ready to join the organization, I trained with Julian Smith, one of the leaders. He was the one who introduced me to Griffin. With his and Father Solomon’s guidance, I was able to find my way back to God. Griffin is a dear friend to me.” They both smiled at each other.

Griffin passed the dishes to Mackland one-by-one, who took a pass on the bacon and pancakes but filled his plate with the rest. Jim bowed his head, Griffin following him in a prayer before they started their morning meal. Mac listened finding peace in their words.

“Griffin,” Mac asked, “what’s your specialty?” He chewed on a piece of toast, feeling a bit nauseous, the migraine was starting to ease yet still behind his eyes.

“My specialty is genetic research. I completed medical school, but preferred research to practice. Within the Brotherhood, my expertise focuses on the Triad histories, bloodlines, and ancient weaponry.” Griffin explained.

“The Triad?”

“The Triad are the leaders of the Brotherhood,” Jim explained, “composed of three men. The Guardian, the Knight, and the Scholar.”

Griffin joked, “The Brains, the Braun, and the Peacekeeper, you mean?”

“Pay him no mind, Mackland. They are honorable men and we’re both proud to serve them.” Jim scolded his friend playfully.

Mac ate slowly, deep in thought, and still pained. Pain always made him lose his appetite. He sat, eyes closing of their own accord, listening to the two men chat amicably. 

A hand covered his own and Mac pried his eyes open, “I apologize, I’m being rude.” Dr. Porter had exchanged seats with Jim to sit closer to him.

“Please don’t worry yourself, we know you’re not feeling well. I would like to read you if you’ll allow me to,” Griffin asked earnestly.

Taking in a deep breath, Mackland realized what he meant, “Jim mentioned that you had gifts like mine.”

Griffin chuckled, “No, Mac. My abilities are nothing like yours. I need to be in contact with a person through touch for my abilities to work. I can read people, dull pain sensors, and the like. I’m working on other skills but haven’t perfected them yet.”

“Dull pain sensors?” Mac’s brow was scrunched up, looking down as he remembered the night before when the pain melted away. “Did you – help me last night?”

“Yes,” Griffin smiled widely. “You were in a considerable amount of pain last night and I wanted to help you.”

“Thank you,” Mac gushed. He was not used to people who would go out of their way to help him. At his core, he was a New Yorker; raised in a man-eat-man city, scrambling over each other on their way to the top. “If it won’t cause me any more pain, you have my permission to read me.”

“No,” Dr. Porter promised, “it won’t cause you pain. If anything, I believe I can further assist you.”

It was a strange feeling that washed over him, indescribable. A flutter of air, gentle unlike the overwhelming river of power that he kept dammed. 

“You’re hurting yourself,” Griffin started, pulling away to sit back.

The comment confused the doctor. He was not one for self-harm. “What do you mean by that?” Mac snapped. Jim came up behind him and lay a hand on his shoulder, calmly telling him to let Griffin explain.

“Have you had migraines before?” Dr. Porter asked.

“The migraine’s started after my accident. I suffered a traumatic brain injury; an occasional migraine is acceptable. I couldn’t have wished for a better outcome.” Mac was grateful. He could have suffered amnesia, permanently lost use of his limbs, or could have a child’s mind. None of those things happened. He would take on the challenges he now faced and be grateful for the opportunity.

Griffin leaned forward, “That’s incorrect. The migraines are the result of backwash.”

Mac shook his head no.

Griffin put a hand on his shoulder, gently using a fingertip to turn his head so their eyes could meet again. “Jim told me that you were telekinetic and psychometric. When our minds touched, I saw a river. You’re trying to hold back the river with a dam.” The doctor saw him roll his eyes, then switched allegories to something that another doctor would understand. “Think of it like holding back a sneeze. Do it once, the likelihood of something happening is low. But, if you do it every day on every sneeze, complications occur, you can burst a blood vessel or an eardrum. Worst case, it could lead to a collapsed lung, broken rib, or throat damage. You’re holding your powers back and causing yourself harm. If you don’t stop, I’m afraid you’ll cause yourself irreparable damage.”

Jim squeezed his shoulder, still at his back. “Mackland, I trust Griffin. His family has been in the Brotherhood for generations. He has considerable knowledge of psychic energy; he’s studied it.”

Mackland swallowed hard at the new knowledge, rubbing his face. “What do I have to do?

Griffin let go, sitting back thinking. “I think you need to let the river run free. Take down the dam.”

“No,” Mac immediately disagreed. “If I let the river run free, the entire house could collapse.”

Griffin looked startled. Slowly, spacing the question out, he asked, “Has that happened recently?”

“It happened while I was in the hospital. It’s why I left. I lost control and I hurt someone who had been trying to help me. He nearly lost an eye. I nearly hurt my father.” Mackland explained, full of regret.

“So that’s what happened,” Griffin realized. “You hurt someone and so you thought the best course of action was to hurt yourself.”

“Of course, I did not! I’m not suicidal.” Mac yelled. He pulled away from Jim’s touch, ignoring the shooting pain when he aggravated his back in his agitation.

“I don’t mean that you’re doing it on purpose. But there is a psychological aspect to your turning your powers on yourself. Now, that you’ve gained basic control of your powers, you’re redirecting the energy towards yourself subconsciously. You have to let it go.”

“I could kill you.” Mac was afraid, his heart pounding so hard that he could feel it in his temples.

Jim came around to face him, “You would never hurt us, Mackland. I believe in you.”

“Would it make you feel better if we went outside, perhaps near the pond? There’s nothing out that for you to hurt.” Dr. Porter offered.

Mac felt sick. “Maybe some other time, I think I need to lie down.”

“Let it go, Dr. Ames.” Porter insisted. “Imagine a soft stream, nothing holding it back. It’s peaceful, flowing.”

“Mackland, please. If you haven’t yet learned to trust Porter, I hope that you know that you can trust me,” Jim pleaded. “No one wants to see you hurt.”

He wasn’t sure why he decided to let go if it were trust or a leap of faith, but he let the dam collapse in his mind. He had his eyes closed, photosensitive to the morning light coming in from the kitchen window. He heard and felt the tremors of items moving around the room, and he scrambled for the stones to rebuild. His shaking hand was taken, Griffin squeezing it tightly. “You don’t need a dam. Just slow the flow. Calm the river. Breathe.”

Gasping for breath and holding his head up with both hands, Mac imagined the rocks of the dam forming bedrock where the river flowed into a newly created lake. It was quiet there. He heard items clattering on the kitchen tiles but was too exhausted to bother with it.

“Jim, could you please get a cup of water for our friend? And a damp washcloth?” Porter ordered. Mac felt his fingers against his neck, pressing his carotid for a pulse. “You’re alright. You did a great job.”

“Don’t be condescending,” Mac snapped.

Griffin laughed, “Haha. Do you think I’m pulling your leg? Dr. Ames that was – extraordinary. You built a reservoir, one that can store extra psychic energy for emergencies. I’ve never heard of anyone doing that before.”

“It seemed prudent since I was taking down the dam that I use the rocks for another purpose,” Mac said logically, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the cool cloth Jim handed him. Looking down, his shirt was soaked through, as if he had been splashed with the water from the river of his mind. 

Jim held out a glass of water and Mac drank from it, thirstily as if he had run a marathon.

Scanning his body, Mac noticed the absence of pain in his head now. The migraine had faded. Unfortunately, his back still ached, and his legs still weak under him. “It seems I owe you both a debt of gratitude that I’m unsure how to repay. You were right.”

“There is no debt, my friend,” Jim said, echoed by Griffin.

Mac looked at Griffin with new eyes, “Do you have other tips or research regarding psychic abilities that I could use? It seems that I could use the education.”

Griffin smiled, “I’m sure that I could lend you some reading material.”

Jim cleared away the broken dishes, waving away Mac’s apologies. “I only pull out my Emma’s good china on special occasions.”

Quickly, the man fried up another few eggs and divided them. Without a pounding head, Mac’s appetite returned, and he was able to finish breakfast. The quiet comradery the two men had shared extended to him. Mac had never had brothers, but imagined, sitting there with them, that they were like his family.


	18. Chapter 18

Jim helped him pack up his belongings, joking with him. He wasn’t entirely sure how, but he managed to impress both men. Jim had approached him, tentatively asking him what he thought of the Brotherhood. Mac was honest, he told him if the other Brothers were as kind as Jim and Griffin, then he would be happy to know the community of hunters once his feet were back under him.

Griffin came up to him before leaving the farm, giving Mac his contact information. Porter had mentioned that he would also enjoy working with Mac again before driving away.

Mackland anticipated Jim asking him to join their ranks and was surprised that the Pastor told him that it wasn’t within his power to initiate him. If he was interested in joining the Brotherhood, he would need to train as a hunter first. That during training, he would be passed up the ranks until Mac met with the Triad. There, the Guardian would pass judgment and approve or deny his entry. If he were approved, he’d be honored with a silver ring. Jim offered to train him.

The men had been sitting by the fireplace, Atticus under Jim’s legs as they rested on an ottoman. Mac took a sip from his cup of tea, thinking. “Jim, thank you. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I hope that you feel the same, but whether or not I join the Brotherhood, you’re my brother. Before committing my life to your cause, I want to learn more about it.”

Jim took a sip from his spiced cider, nodding, “I respect that, Mackland.” He got up gingerly, not wanting to step on the sleeping dog. Then Jim reached for a leather-bound book off his shelf. Holding it out to his friend, Jim continued, “This is my first journal. I trust you with it, Mackland. Everyone in the Brotherhood keeps a journal. It’s private and familial, usually passed from father to son or hunter to Guardian upon one’s death. I joined the Brotherhood during a dark time in my life. I wasn’t the man you know now, but my words will explain how I found my way again with their help. I hope you’ll read it and decide if this life is for you.”

Reverently, Mac took the journal. “I promise that I will read it. When I’m done, I’ll visit you and bring it back.” He breathed, not wanting to break the peace they found, “Jim, I need to head home and get my life in order. Joining the Brotherhood is one thing, but I need to repair the damage that I’ve caused and the people that I’ve hurt. Afterward, I’ll be ready to train with you and see if I have what it takes to be among you.”

The conversation ended there with Jim respecting his need for time. The brotherly bond he’d felt did not fade nor become strained. Jim continued in his routines and Mac trained his abilities outside. Without a dam, it was easier to move items, as he channeled his powers along the direction that he chose instead of trying to hold a flood back.

Mackland contacted his father, telling him that he was ready to head home. This time, his father accompanied the private plane wanting to meet his son’s new friend. Mac arranged a reservation for the three of them at the only family restaurant in the town, deciding against taking him to the saloon. They would enjoy a meal together, say their goodbyes, and head back to New York City.

It was unexpected and a joy to discover his father’s sense of humor that Jim was able to bring forth during dinner. They had laughed so hard that his cheeks hurt. How did he not know that his father was an avid storyteller? Mac swore that his father was better at it than Jim, keeping them both captivated with his charisma. They were stories that he had never heard before of how his parents met, of his teenage years, of his friends. Jim responded in kind, telling them war stories, stories of Emma, and childhood pranks.

Jim regaled his father with the story of how his son had found a missing child, how happy he was to have met his dear friend. The attention made the doctor blush, noticing the way his father’s eyes gleamed in pride. It was a small town, and the folks in it were busybodies. Of course, they eavesdropped on their dinner conversations. One by one those in the restaurant came by their table, patting the doctor on the back and thanking him for finding Luiz.

One of Hernandez’s neighbors sat down at their table to gossip, Mrs. Beattie was soon charmed by his father. She spoke of the boys who had attacked Luiz being court-mandated to attend psychotherapy. Mrs. Beattie also reported that the family was doing well and had decided to sell their house, not wanting to stay in the small town. Mackland couldn’t blame them, their son nearly died. Jim promised him that he’d check in on the boy before the family moved and let Mac know how he fared. 

Soon, it was dark and time to leave. He hugged Jim tightly, promising to keep in touch. Cullen shook Jim’s hand, surprising them when he also hugged the pastor then whispered something into his ear. Jim bowed his head humbly, returning the sentiment. They walked out to the parking lot. Jim assisted in moving Mac’s suitcases into his father’s rented town car. Exchanging another wave of goodbyes, he watched Jim drive away before getting into the car.

The drive to the airport was comfortable. The laughter they’d enjoyed at dinner continuing throughout the night unrestrained, even at the airport. He noticed his father charm all those that he encountered, from the ticket desk to the baggage handlers. This time, he was part of the story. Cullen had an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into the narrative instead of pushing him away as an annoyance.

They settled into their seats across from each other on the plane. Once the stewards took their drink orders, it was finally quiet. 

Mackland had practiced this speech several times at the farmhouse, but when the time finally came, he faltered. He did not want to disrupt the peace they found by reopening old wounds.

His father noticed him faltering, “Is everything alright, son?”

“I don’t think I ever thanked you for what you did for me in the hospital.”

Cullen looked at him with a small smile, “I’m your father. You don’t need to thank me for taking care of you.”

It was a sudden realization, like seeing the sun for the first time, “You’ve been trying to take care of me for a long time. I simply was too selfish and egotistical to see it. I always thought you were ashamed of me, but that’s not it.”

Mac could see his father’s expression falter, swallowing, “I was never ashamed of you, Mackland. I wanted the best for you. I wanted to teach you how to be a good man. Perhaps I was too heavy-handed throughout the years. It was never my intention to hurt you, son.”

“I know that now, Dad,” Mackland promised. “I love you and I promise you, Dad, I am going to be a better man. Someone that you’ll be proud of.”

“I’m already proud of you. I love you, son,” Cullen replied.

A two-hour flight later, the driver was pulling up to his home. His father was accompanying him to his front door, insisting since his legs stiffened up during the flight. “I had the maids freshen up the place for you, son.” His father handed him the keys, forgetting that his father had his belongings stored since the accident.

This would be the first time he had been home in nearly a year. Turning on the lights, the wall-to-wall glass windows, forest green paint, minimalist décor, and the modern furniture were all the same as he left it. Nothing had been moved as if it were a sealed tomb. He walked in, feeling cold.

Large above the mantle was his engagement photo framed in simple black wood. Rebecca was in a tight little black dress, a smirk on her face as she looked down at the ring that he had given her. He was dressed in a tuxedo, eyes only on her. Cullen gasped, “I’m so sorry Mackland. I forgot; I should have asked them to take down the photos. Are you alright?”

Once, the sight of her would have made him lose control. Now, the photo left him feeling transformed. He put an arm around his father. “It’s okay Dad. I’m alright. That’s not me anymore. Actually, this place is not me anymore. Would it be a hardship if I stay with you until I sell the place? I would like us to get to know each other.”

For a while, Cullen seemed stunned but snapped out of it with a grin. “Let’s blow this joint and head home, son.”

* * *

It was a change, living with his father. His place sold quickly, so both men came up with another excuse for him to remain. His father's house was practically a mansion, so he took two rooms as his own and set one up as a bedroom while the as other office space.

The first morning Mac had woken early to make breakfast his father was taken aback, as he usually didn’t cook. However, Jim had taught him simple and hearty breakfast recipes that he enjoyed. Pulling out a chair, Mac served the older man a warm meal. “Thank you, son. This is delicious.”

His father went to the office while Mackland continued to research and practice. He made phone calls to the hospital board to find out the requirements for returning to work. Mac made appointments with the physical therapists to continue to work on regaining strength in his legs and back. He contacted his team, speaking to each one privately to thank them for their assistance.

He nearly broke down speaking to Alvin, promising him that he’d pay for any cosmetic surgery that the insurance wouldn’t cover. He apologized over and over, crying when the man offered forgiveness.

He spoke to Naomi, wanting to see how she was managing with her ill father. She mentioned that she missed him and his father, that she missed all her patients. Mackland told her that he was planning to return to work soon and offered her a job whenever she was ready to reenter the medical field.

Finally, he managed to summon enough strength to make his way to the cemetery. The obituary listed the burial plot number, so Mac made his way down the aisle towards the headstone marked “Lisa Morse, wife, mother, sister and shining star”. The doctor lay the yellow roses he brought down across the headstone. Yellow roses were for forgiveness, at least it was what the florist had told him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have given up on you, Lisa.” He looked down and spoke as if she were listening. “I won’t make a mistake like this again, I promise you. I’m turning my life around as if I were a different person now.”

He bowed his head and prayed for her soul. He felt a breeze and swore that he saw a flicker of her shadow before it faded away. With a last touch of the headstone, he walked away with a sense of peace. 

The End


End file.
